Secrets and Sins
by AuroraBlix
Summary: Agent Louisiana of Project Freelancer. A new name and a new life. 'What's the catch' you ask? Well, that's what she wonders, too. So when she has to deal with an arrogant boss, old problems in her new life, a freakishly intelligent space cat, Irish sass, and an ever-growing web of lies... Well, let's just say that Murphy's Laws prevail.
1. Murphy's Laws In The Windy City

_Murphy's First Law: Nothing is as easy as it looks._

On a dark and crisp September evening, on a rooftop in Chicago, a very angry agent of Project Freelancer was muttering every English and Spanish curseword in her, obviously very extensive, vocabulary.

Her tan-colored partner, on the rooftop adjacent to hers, winced in sympathy for the poor sap who had just delivered the bad news. The news that their entire plan for infiltrating the 70 story skyscraper in front of them was going... going... _gone_.

And every word coming out of her mouth was echoing over the radio.

In an attempt to get her to calm down and focus on more important things, Agent New York asked, confusedly, "So... What are we supposed to do now?"

His 19-year-old partner, tantrum thrown and ready to deal with the problem at hand, simply sighed and stood up.

"Wait, where are you going?" York said, even more confused than before, as she walked to the other side of her roof.

Agent Louisiana had chosen to reside on that particular abandoned building for two reasons. (A) The aforementioned abandoned-ness and (B) if she walked to the far side then, from his vantage-point several buildings away, their other companion lost sight of her.

At that point, she might have had to listen to the white-armored Freelancer whine rather Britishly about not seeing her, but she had already initiated what she called 'Dickhead Radio Silence.' Immediately after they got into position. Three hours previously.

Their objective: Appropriate (read: steal) some data files from an office on the top floor that supposedly held information about Insurrectionist leaders in the Inner Colonies.

The plan: Using the arrival of the guests to the charity event taking place on the lower floors as a cover, scale the building and quietly break in through the roof.

_Subtlety_ was the key here, not brute force. That fact alone made Louisiana question what the _hell_ the other agent was supposed to be doing on the mission.

'Easy, peasy, lemon squeezy' as she had put it after they were briefed.

But, as Murphy's Law proves, nothing is a easy as it seems.

"Seriously, this is just ridiculous," she said to herself softly, if not calmly, as she removed her helmet (revealing her oddly colored hair), inserted an earpiece to keep in contact with York, and began to fumble with the straps securing her armguards.

"Hey, what are you-"

But she wasn't listening to York.

"Everyone knows that the security advertised for events like these are always doubled, sometimes even tripled, but doubling _that_?! Isn't that just a _tad_ bit paranoid?"

Not bothering to allow any voice other than her own to respond, she answered her semi-rhetoric query with a semi-sarcastic retort.

"Of course, _(A)_ There's no such thing as paranoia. And _(B)_ Even if there was, then apparently it would be completely justified seeing as we, ourselves, are trying to break in."

A stunned York watched in fascinated silence as she stripped off the last of her silver over-armor, then blushed deeply and turned away quickly as she moved to unzip her black body-suit.

He jumped guiltily, and blushed even more, when he heard his other companion's extremely British voice asking "What the bloody hell is going on over there? Where did Louisiana go? I can't see a thing!" over the radio.

York quickly severed communications with the other agent when he realized that he couldn't hear Louisiana talking to herself over the incessant yammering.

"I can't believe I volunteered for this crap," she muttered disgruntledly, before York heard her pause and give a satisfied sigh. She relished the feeling of the cool air on her mostly naked body (it was times like these that she was grateful she wore undergarments under her body suit).

As York turned around to check on her, which brought on another bout of blood rushing to his cheeks (as well as other places), it hit him why she insisted on being positioned on that particular building.

_Wyoming_. That man had issues.

Then Louisiana continued speaking as she began to pull on a piece of black fabric (York had no clue where she'd gotten it),

"But, _seriously_?! Almost _ten_ guys on the roof alone! Aren't you goin' a _little_ overboard there, bud?" Then she sighed again. Her _I hate my life but it's the only one I've got_ sigh. "Fucking rich people."

His composure regained, as well as his cocky attitude and usual coloring, York looked her over from head to toe. "Going somewhere, are we?"

"Not we. Me" was the clipped response he got.

"So... What with the flashiness?"

Another sigh. More along the lines of _Why is my life so complicated and WHY do I have to keep explaining simple shit to EVERYONE?_ "As much as I hate to admit it," she began. "Murphy's Laws do tend to prevail, especially in my previous profession, and sixteen arrests for not having a backup plan have taught me to have plans through the letter G. At _least_."

"And this would be Plan-?" He let the question hang in the air as she slid on a pair of strappy, black, 4-inch heels with Greek-style laces winding up to the middle of her calves.

_Where is she getting all this stuff?_ York thought, confused for the sixth time that night.

"This would be 'Plan _I_'. As in '_I_ hate this plan'"

"Why do you hate this plan?" He asked, curious as to why she would hate a plan that she herself came up with and was, in fact, implementing as they spoke.

"Too damn familiar." Clear and concise. Simple and easy. Bitter and irritable. And for York, it just brought on a whole new round of questions. But, those could wait.

She then donned a thin, silver chain with a black teardrop that settled at the hollow of her throat.

Done with that, Louisiana surveyed her completed outfit.

The dress was made of soft, black cotton that did a good job of curving around her torso without hugging it, then flaring out slightly when it reached her hips, and ended just above her knees.

Her left arm and shoulder were completely bared, while the full-length sleeve on her right arm mimicked the body of the dress. It was form-fitted to her arm until it reached her wrist, where it then flared out and ended at her knuckles.

York whistled.

"Your hair's bound to attract attention," he noted while eyeing the chin-length, royal purple curls. "It doesn't exactly match your established color scheme. And you should be thankful for those heels otherwise your height, or lack thereof, would attract attention, too."

"5'4" is a perfectly respectable height," Louisiana replied curtly, miffed at his teasing.

"No, it's _minuscule_," he fired back, smugly, before quickly moving on. "What exactly does 'Plan I' entail, anyway?"

She scrunched her curls, vaguely worried about helmet hair, as she smirked. "Simple. If we can't get in and take the files without them knowing, then I'll just have to bring the attention to me and have- What was the name of the guy throwing this bash?"

She looked at him expectantly for a minute before he realized that she was actually waiting for him to answer.

"Oh, um..." He fumbled around for a moment before he remembered. "His name is Antoine... Beauregard."

She nodded affirmatively, so he continued. "He's President and CEO of a... software company, born right here on Earth. In France."

She took a moment to mutter a sarcastic "Oh, yeah, I couldn't possibly have figured out the whole _'French'_ thing on my own."

"_Hey_, now!" York tried to sound wounded but Louisiana's attitude has always fascinated and amused him, so the grin on his face and in his voice gave it away. "No need to get snippy."

She glared at him briefly before muttering an almost unheard-of apology and continuing to share her plan.

"I'll have to look pretty noticeable to grab and hold his attention, then I'll... _convince_ him to take me up to his office on the top floor."

York was hesitant to ask, he had noticed that the young woman's moods often ranged from distracted to irritable and rarely contained anything very friendly, but his curiosity was too intense.

"How are you gonna 'convince' him to do that?" As far as he could tell, his colleague was nothing but a small bundle of hostility.

As soon as this thought flashed through his mind, Louisiana proved it wrong by grinning at him impishly. She nearly gave him a heart attack in the process, too. But, what could he say? The girl looked good when she wasn't frowning.

Her response "The _traditional_ way, of course" sent shivers down his spine as she sauntered to the stairwell on her rooftop and headed down to the street.

* * *

Several minutes later, York was being chewed out by Wyoming for ignoring his attempts at contact (and changing the plan without his knowledge) and Louisiana was standing in the back of the line of guests, all vying to get into the building that housed her mark.

She shivered with something as close to delight as she could remember feeling in a long time. Just using that word took her back to the times when she'd be doing something like this for actual _money_. Or just for kicks.

Back then, she was more likely to carry a knife strapped to her thigh than a sniper rifle to her back, like she did while in armor.

She missed the good old days. Days when she worried about _bills_ and motion sensor technology rather than _ammunition_ and motion sensor technology.

"Alright," she said softly. "Testing, testing, one two three. Do you copy, Foxtrot 12?"

"I hear you, Foxtrot 13. Loud and clear." York answered, good-humored enough after Wyoming's lecture to try teasing her again. "By the way, you look pretty good down there, Louisiana. You been workin' out?"

Louisiana gave a soft laugh, drinking in the familiarity of her current predicament, gaining confidence from it and letting it lighten her mood. "Yeah, whatever, York... Thanks."

Sometimes, familiarity wasn't all that bad...

"No problem." He responded, smiling victoriously under his helmet for finally making the uptight new recruit laugh. His personal objective for the last two months.

"Well," she said excitedly. "Let's get this show on the road.

Sometimes, familiarity was downright comforting...


	2. Much Ado About Nothing

_Murphy's Ninth Law: Nature always sides with the hidden flaw._

"Oh, my god! I am so _bored_," whined the purple-haired agent standing in a line—so close, yet so far, from the entrance to the building—with several groups of people in front of her. All of them were waiting to have their invitations checked by the large, scary-looking pair of men at the front door.

"Oh, c'mon, Louisiana. You've only been standing there for— "York tried for diplomacy with the unhappy young woman, but she cut him off.

"A good _ten_ minutes! I've pulled entire _jobs_ that have taken less time than this fucking line!" Agent Louisiana whisper-yelled the complaint into the earpiece at her companion currently residing on the rooftop of a building on the other side of the street.

York didn't respond to her immediately but she heard his muffled voice, so she assumed he was engaged in a conversation with Wyoming who was, thankfully, several blocks away. _His_ job was to alert them if any unwanted visitors (namely Insurrectionist backup) were heading their way.

After a minute, having wrapped up an argument about flirting on the mission (he was _not_ flirting!), he finally got back to his conversation with the irate Freelancer down below.

"Hey," he started, a thought having struck him (and having lost track of his place in conversation). "What _was_ your job before joining the Project? I mean, I know I was there when you agreed to join up, but you didn't really look like you were working there. You looked more like you were just, I don't know, hanging out."

"And kicking a little ass on my downtime?" Her voice carried a hint of sarcasm, but it was overwhelmed by amusement mixed with a warm friendliness York had never heard before.

He grinned in response. "Well, _naturally_. I wouldn't expect anything less." Another moment of silence went by.

"So… what _did_ you do?"

"Well, I was a…" Louisiana's nerve failed her and she felt embarrassed without really knowing why. She'd always taken pride in her work, one of the only good things she'd been taught growing up, in her opinion. Or _bad_, depending on which side you were on; her's or her mark's.

"I …was a… um…. I was a con-" She cleared her throat unnecessarily. "I was a confidence woman."

"Oh," said York awkwardly. "So you were a, um…" He trailed off uncertainly, not quite sure what the term meant but thinking it sounded like a… lady of the night.

Louisiana caught on to his train of thought. "Oh, gross! No! 'Confidence woman' is just a prettier term for a _grifter_." She was annoyed that his mind automatically went to fucking _prostitution_ and offended that he would think she was that easy.

"Yes, I got paid by rich men in suits but it was to steal things from people they didn't like. A couple… friends, for lack of a better word, would help me sometimes but I was mainly solo."

She thought of Rogers, her main employer since she got into the business, as well as their deal. "I gave them a cut of my earnings to keep open their nightclub, mostly 'cause it was a good place to crash when business was slow, but I didn't do much except occasionally tend the bar."

"Oooooh," York said slowly. Light dawned and Louisiana was grateful, if not still irritated.

"_Honestly_," she muttered, still miffed. "What is it with _boys_ that they can't keep their mind out of the gutter?"

York mimicked the girl on the ground and cleared his throat awkwardly, while casting around for a different topic of discussion. He felt extremely uncomfortable when Louisiana was mad at him. Maybe it was because she could quietly kill him 100 different ways while he slept, and that was without a weapon.

Maybe it was because her lower lip jutted out slightly (not enough to be considered a pout) and invariably drew his eyes.

"So, what's your plan for getting inside? I'm sure you don't exactly have an invitation." York chuckled at the thought, but she didn't laugh. Instead, her voice gained a very superior tone.

"_Actually_, I do have an invitation."

"What? _How_?!" York was dumbfounded.

"Um, _hello_! What do you not understand about the term 'grifter'? I have at least _20_ different identities!" She didn't know if he could see it, but she quirked an eyebrow in his general direction.

Evidently, he _did_ see it through his sniper because almost immediately he huffed in voice half-annoyed and half-amused, "Don't look at me like that!"

"_Anyway_," she continued, looking back at the front of the line then checking the three couples behind her. "I had an old… buddy of mine, Kale, hack into Beauregard's system and send one of my aliases an invite."

Thinking about the conversation she'd had with her friend right after she was briefed about this mission, Louisiana felt… well, _homesick_.

She fell silent for a moment, missing her old life and friends, wishing they were here with her and that she was only doing this for the sapphire pendant and diamond tiara tucked away in a safe in Beauregard's office.

York, sensing her mood with his magical powers—or paying attention to her expression (she wasn't sure which)—tried cheering her up by changing the subject. "So… Who are you pretending to be?"

It seemed to work because she shook herself and gave a reminiscent smile. York was beginning to think he might be on a streak, with her smiling so much.

"Lucille Essex. She's known in certain circles, like these ones, as a highly reclusive…" She hesitated, not wanting to lose her tenuous status as a badass even if it wasn't _really_ her, and then finished lamely, "Person."

It was York's turn to raise an eyebrow at that point. He could sense the tables had turned and that it was a good opportunity to get her back for all her sarcastic quips.

"Person?" He said skeptically. "Certainly, she must have _something_ to add to high-society for people like Beauregard to recognize the name, respect it, and not even question it."

Louisiana blushed, making York all the more curious.

"Oh, please! You just told me you're a con. What could be embarrassing at this point?"

Louisiana grumbled unintelligibly in response.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" York prompted, pleased that he wasn't the one blushing this time.

"I'm…" Not one to give out information about herself (even a fake self), she changed her answer and started again. "I'm a-"

But before she could finish what was sure to be an absolutely horrendous lie, she reached the front of the line.

"Name," droned a six-foot-two, bald-headed male in a black suit and dark sunglasses, bored with the lack of action on his end and wondering if he could sneak some pie on his break.

Louisiana cleared her throat before speaking clearly into the microphone he offered her.

Her voice rose slightly in pitch—also becoming more inviting, less ominous, and generally more empty-headed—and her north-western accent morphed into a seamless impersonation of the pseudo-British git she was denying communication to.

"Lucille Essex. Access code: Essex-Pi-Alpha. Security clearance: Echo-5."

She then leaned forward slightly to allow her blue-green iris to be scanned by a small, handheld sensor, much like the ones used to scan bar-codes in 21st century stores.

After a moment of waiting there came a small beep and the large man carelessly waved a hand toward the large, glass revolving door. Louisiana took that as a sign to enter and proceeded to do so.

She looked around the lobby of the building in awe.

The floors were a beautiful white marble veined with gold, and twenty feet above her was twinkling crystal chandelier.

Louisiana gave a low whistle, impressed and able to admire the beauty of modern architecture that was complimented by the mid-20th century-esque décor, despite the circumstances.

"Dude, I _so_ wish you could see this right now! It's amazing!" She murmured excitedly to York, who had been waiting for her to finish her explanation. If there was one thing she could appreciate it was diamonds, secrets, and architecture.

It was obvious that Louisiana wasn't going to get back to what she had been saying, so the tan-armored soldier simply expressed his bewilderment at what had just transpired with the guard. "What was _that_ all about?"

Louisiana tore her gaze away from the beautiful room, turned right, and walked quickly to catch the empty elevator that had just arrived. Then she simply punched the button for the seventeenth floor and settled in for the ride.

"This is a very exclusive and high-class function and as such there are extensive measures taken to ensure that it isn't crashed." She rolled her eyes in exasperation at the ridiculous measures, but continued to explain.

"That was me allowing them to compare my voice with that of 'Lucille's', to make sure that I'm the same person or something, and also me giving my password. SOP is super paranoid."

After a few seconds of silence, Louisiana was prepared to drop her good mood like a sack of potatoes and demand why York was being so quiet (normally she could never get him to shut up!) when he finally responded.

"Okay, first question: What?! Second question: _What?!_ And my third question: Sop? Followed immediately by: WHAT?!"

She couldn't contain the small giggle that escaped her at his frustrated tone. Apparently, this was a night for breaking York's streak of calm assurance and, at times, roguish teasing. Then she sighed when she realized what his questions signified.

"Did Leonard not tell you guys what was going on here in this building?"

Long past the novelty of one of his subordinates referring to the Director by his first name, York felt cold dread creep into his veins. If Connie was to be believed then this was somewhere around the umpteenth time that their commander-in-chief had sent his forces into a mission without giving them all of the information.

He gave a defeated sigh.

"Hmph. Well, it looks like I lost that bet with Connie." The resignation in his voice made Louisiana's heart squeeze. It always made her feel bad when she realized exactly how much Dr. Church's guinea pigs trusted him.

Knowing it wouldn't be right to expose the Director's plans (no matter how… _questionable_) this early in the game, due to the fact that she still had questions that needed to be answered, Louisiana made an effort to lighten the mood and draw attention away from her slip.

"That'll teach you to gamble with Connie. She'll take your money or dignity, as the case may be, every time."

Shifting her feet in embarrassment, Louisiana smiled in the memory of an ill-advised wager she (as well as a couple other fellow agents) had made with the sly, brown-armored woman her first few weeks as a recruit.

The reference got a dry chuckle seeing as he had been there to witness the debacle, but York still had an important question.

"So, what else has the Director neglected to share with us about this little escapade?"


	3. Entry 9

**Agent Louisiana Personal Log – Encryption Code: Upsilon – Entry #9**

-August 31, 2548-

_So, I've just been informed that in a couple weeks I'll be going on a mission with York and Wyoming to Chicago. Something about suspected Insurrectionist activities in the city and infiltrating a building and 'Don't cause any trouble with Agent Wyoming or you'll be suspended again'. Texan bastard._

_This is bullshit, man. I don't why I'm even on the roster for this mission because—honestly—I don't give a damn about the Insurrection. I know, I know, how could I not, right? But just stick with me on this:_

_What is the main purpose of the Insurrection? It's a rebellion. An 'insurrection' is a rebellion or revolution. So the purpose would be to rebel against the established order, right?_

_Well, regimes fall every day, I've even helped topple a few, and I tend not to weep over that. So why should I spend my precious time protecting the interests of the bureaucrats when I have my own shit to worry about. _

_I didn't joins Leonard's cute little project to fuck around. I joined for a very specific reason with a very specific understanding of how things were going to go down. _

_Now, for the last 9 months I've held up my end of the bargain. I've gone on the damn missions, I've played (relatively) nice with the guinea pigs (read: haven't killed anyone yet), I've done the training and the_ Yes, sir_'s and the passive-aggression and I'm fucking tired of all the bullshit._

_I swear, if Leonard doesn't give me what he promised, and soon, then I'm gonna leave his ass high and dry. See how smoothly shit goes without me running interference for him._

_Besides, I haven't gathered nearly as much info on everyone's favorite sociopath (who isn't Maine, that is) as I would have hoped. I'm starting to think this whole thing has just been a waste of time. _

_Why couldn't I just let sleeping bastards lie? Why couldn't I just be neurotic about the shit that I can actually deal with? Why couldn't I just be happy with my life and leave past issues in the fucking past?! _

_...Oh, right, because I'm a dumbass! _

_On a side-note, Leonard approached me, again, about the possibility of implantation. Evidently, he didn't hear the tone of finality in my voice the last time we talked about it. _

_Of course, the more I think about it the more I'm open to the idea. I guess he could tell I was thinking about considering the concept of the idea. _

_Well, I gotta give him props for good instincts. He's still an idiot with a fucked up sense of morality and couldn't hit the broad side of a spaceship with a sniper to save his worthless life, but he does have good instincts. _

_He even got me to agree to look over the available programs. Sneaky bastard! He comes at me with this right when I'm about the shoot someone out of boredom. _Damn _his instincts! _

_Then again, what does my actually considering this crap say about me and my morals? _

...

...

...

_Yeah, I'm not really comfortable with this line of thinking and all that self-reflection shit so I'm just gonna change the subject again. _

_I'm seriously considering taking control of the PA system and announcing to the _Mother of Invention _that York is in love with Carolina. And vice versa, of course. _

_I swear to anyone in the universe listening, if those two don't get their asses in gear then they'll have me to deal with. I know I'm not much to look at but, while they'd have size on their side, but I've got rage on mine. _

_I can't stand people who beat around the bush. I mean, what do they think they're_ doing_?! It's not like we have a lot of _time_, here, in our line of work. _

_I mean, if it has to be anyone, then those two make sense, at least. It's just—in war, there's just never as much time as you think..._

**Agent Louisiana has logged off.**


	4. A Memo Titled 'Shit I Already Know'

***SPOILER ALERT! LOOK AWAY!* Julian Burgess will be played by Burgess Abernethy. If you don't know who he is or, more specifically, what he looks like then just Google him. But make sure to ask his permission first! It's just impolite, otherwise. **

* * *

_Murphy's Sixth Law: If you perceive that there are four possible ways in which a procedure can go wrong and circumvent these, then a fifth way, unprepared for, will promptly develop._

There were two minutes of silence in which Louisiana shifted uncomfortably, contemplating how much she should and could tell her Freelancer friend residing at the top of the board.

She gave a mental jump as the wayward thought came to the forefront of her mind.

_The hell is wrong with me? Since when do I consider York a friend? Twenty minutes ago I was trying to come up with a plan to kill him in an amusing yet ironic way!_

She shook her head to clear it as the elevator _ding_-ed, and stepped out into the empty corridor. Then she reclined against the metal frame, thinking how the last time she'd had this rapid a change in opinion of someone was when she'd met Roman. Then again, she probably would have had her head bitten off if she didn't give her blessing.

_Gotta keep your head clear, girl. This is all just temporary, remember? You can't afford to be thinking like this; can't afford to get attached._

"Definitely a bad idea," Louisiana murmured to herself.

_"What?"_ York's voice was obscured by static, and there seemed to be some kind of echo or double timbre, but it was still recognizably curious over the radio.

"Sorry?"

_"You said something,"_ he clarified. _"Were you talking to me?"_

"No!" She answered quickly. "Well… um… not _exactly_. I was just thinking that it's not a good idea to… uh… let your soldiers go into the field with so little info. Sloppy. Ends badly."

York gave a slow and doubtful _"Right"_ as Louisiana face-palmed herself but let it drop.

He knew that if she didn't want to talk (and resorted to lying almost as terribly as _he_ did) then no one was going to get anything out of her. That was something he'd learned about her in her first ten minutes as a rookie.

"So!" She said loudly, trying to drag attention away from her painfully obvious deception—how did she have a successful career again?—and walked a few feet before leaning on the wall. "I'll just, uh, give you the run-down, shall I?"

Her voice reverted back to the Lucille Essex persona as she said this and made York, still outside the building, chuckle.

_"Yeah, it'd be kinda helpful to know what we're doin' here. Other than implementing my plan to make you fall in love with me, of course."_ His voice was light and friendly and certainly deserving of his status as the charming playboy of Project Freelancer. Rat bastard.

"Of course," Louisiana answered her voice very serious. Still, she rolled her eyes as she recognized the 'I'm just a regular, easy-going guy' tone underneath that had irked her since day one for reasons unknown.

"But don't get smart," she said good-naturedly, and then she couldn't resist temptation (sexy bitch that she was) and added with a smirk, "It might ruin your reputation."

Laughing again, York said, _"Oh,_ ouch_! I'm_ hurt _that you would say that Louisiana. Why is it that whenever I'm feeling good and confident in my standing with the ladies you always pop up to knock me down a peg? Why do I always have to remind you that I'm on your side?"_

She gave a wry chuckle in response, disregarding the insinuation that she was a killjoy and filing it away for future bitching. He wouldn't be saying that last bit if he had all the information. Or any information, really. Now that she thought about it again, and had gotten to know him a bit better, she could figure out _what_ he might say if he found out about his precious Director.

Guessing the reactions of the other agents if and when they found out had been a little game with her since being recruited. She figured Connecticut would probably say something akin to 'I told you so' or 'I knew it'. Paranoid as she was, Connie was probably the closest to really knowing anything.

She doubted the Freelancer grape would really give a damn. There was something about that woman that set Louisiana's teeth on edge. Something that was just a not-so-tiny bit off about her (though, maybe it was just the shark DNA shining through). The grape's riper twin, on the other hand, probably wouldn't be very accepting of what the Dr. Church's morally ambiguous activities but she didn't know him well enough to say for sure. The most personality she'd ever seen him display was several months ago when York went around asking anyone and everyone to be his Valentine and ended up hitting on both North _and_ South Dakota simultaneously.

_That_ had not ended well, but it had been incredibly entertaining.

And Little-Miss-Oh-So-Perfect would probably parrot back the Director's explanation, sycophant that she was, or spout something about anything being necessary in a time of war. Something to that effect, anyway.

IDaHo, WisConMan, New Hamster, Snitchigan, Oregano… she had a theory tailor-made for everyone in the Project that she'd met.

But York seemed a little too decent a person to condone something like what Leonard was attempting. The fact that he was such a… _not_-bad person confused her. How did someone who just _wasn't_ bad end up in PFL?

It was also something that unnerved her about him. Louisiana didn't meet a lot of—if not regular people—then relatively sane people; especially considering all the nut jobs she'd come across over the years. That, added to his consistently relaxed temperament, made her wary around him. The Project's atmosphere was extremely competitive and constantly charged (with good reason) and his flippant attitude was definitely out of sorts with the gravity of their situation.

A particularly violent crackle of static made her jump, as did the annoying bark of,

_"Aha! Thank you, sir! You've been a marvelous help!"_

Her blood went cold. What. The. _Fuck_?

"_Wyoming_?! How the _hell_ did you get on this channel?" Louisiana couldn't believe it! How could that pathetic piece of white-meat get onto her channel? Kale himself had shown her how to block that jackass!

Then she heard it; the unmistakable, downright _evil_ chuckle of one of the most infuriating people in the universe.

An _Oh shit, I know who this is_ sigh and a disgruntled "Speak of the devil" accompanied the frustrated young woman as she walked to the opposite side of the hallway and leaned against that wall.

_"_Aha_! I knew it was you! No one else sighs like that! By the way, have your new friends figured out that sighing is your main form of communication, yet, or did you finally break through the years of psychological trauma and figure out how to communicate with other human beings?"_

The cocky bastard's voice also had the same echo as York's and was warped by the _snap! crackle!_ and _pop!_ of interference but she still easily recognized its mile-a-minute momentum. Unfortunately.

_"Oh! By the way, were you talking about me earlier, Catie? Cause I caught that whole 'speak of the devil' crack and people only say that if the person they were talking about shows up."_

A resigned, yet still annoyed, sigh echoed as she began to pace the width of the tastefully decorated corridor. She'd blissfully forgotten how fast the pseudo-Italian could speak.

"Not technically. More of a passing thought, really. Doesn't count," Louisiana explained as she literally, and painfully, pinched her own arm for not being careful and thinking about the little punk. He always found a way to appear when she thought about him. She'd once asked him about that particular skill but his response had been "Pshhh! I'm like Superman; I know when I'm needed!"

She'd refrained from asking him questions ever since.

Then his words registered, triggering a reflex born out of years of saying it, like muscle memory, "Don't call me 'Catie'."

_"Who is this? Do you know this guy, Louisiana?"_ The Freelancer in question raised her eyebrows at the sudden challenge in York's voice. Was it just her or did he sound… _jealous_?

_"Yeah, she does. Nice to meet you, man, the name's Romeo. Romeo Valentine."_

_Roman Valentino_, Louisiana automatically corrected in her head.

_"You're kidding,"_ deadpanned the inexplicably resentful soldier in tan.

_"Thanks again for helping me, my good man! You can call me Wyoming and the other one asking all the questions is York,"_ cut in the smarmy bastard in white. _"My rather_ immature _comrade here has been tuning me out, quite literally, ever since an unfortunate incident a several months ago."_

His voice turned particularly bitter as he muttered the next part under his breath. _"And obviously she can't let go of a ridiculous grudge."_

_"Hey, no problemo! Catie and I are both friends with Kale, the guy that taught her that particular trick, so it's the least I could do. Actually, you're not the first person to have that happen. She used to do that sort of thing to me all the time."_ She could practically see his 'I am a cocky bastard, hear me roar!' expression as he carried on.

_"But she had to stop otherwise Teri would have kicked her ass. And I couldn't_ possibly _be the cause of my_ wife _getting into a fight with her best friend! Practically her_ sister, _right_ Catie_?"_

Louisiana first rolled her eyes at the oh-so-_subtle_ jab at the fact that her best friend in the universe had—not only gotten married, oh _no_—she had married _him_, then stopped pacing and turned to face the closed elevator doors.

"Keep it up, Valentino. See where it gets you the next time I chat with her," she made sure the warning in her voice was clear before continuing. "I'm due to talk to her soon, anyway. Haven't talked with her in a few weeks. So, how _is_ our precious Terence?"

_"Still pregnant,"_ he answered morosely. _"And now she's moody as hell! Every time I open my mouth she damn near bites my head off! You gotta help me, Catie!"_

"Well, that's what happens when you get your wife knocked up." She answered, grinning at how she was no longer the only one on the receiving end of her friend's mood swings. "And _don't call me that anymore_. I didn't like it—no, wait, scratch that—I _hated_ it back when it actually applied. And it doesn't even make sense now that my official IDent is 'Louisiana', anyways."

But, after knowing him for as painfully long as she had, the purple-headed bundle of exasperation that was standing in front of the elevator could easily hear the lack of give-a-damn in his voice. _"So what,_ Catie_? Before you were 'Louisiana' you had most people calling you 'Carter Cortez'. And before 'Carter' it was 'Andromeda Martinez'. And before 'Andi' it was 'He–'"_

A male voice with an Aussie lilt came from behind. "Lucille? Is that you?"

The girlish shriek given by Louisiana hurt her own ears as well as anyone else's within a fifty-mile radius. She whirled around and her right hand flashed out catching unawares, and across the face, the man standing casually behind her.

"Oh, my god!" Fortunately, Louisiana had both hands covering her mouth making her voice just muffled enough to disguise the distinct lack of something very important while still allowing the familiar man to understand what she said as he clutched his bright red cheek and blinked rapidly.

She ignored the two voices in her ear demanding to know what was going on, but gasped when she heard Valentino's voice cut through the others' yelling _"Accent! Accent! Your damn_ accent _woman!"_

Louisiana started mentally kicking the ever-living crap out of herself, "I am _so_ sorry, Jules! You just startled me is all," she continued apologetically, careful to use adjust her voice accordingly this time.

After blinking away the pain-filled tears, the dark-haired man straightened and waved his hands dismissively.

"I'm fine. But, may I just say, you have a _mean_ backhand. Besides, it's my own fault," he said smiling ruefully. "After all, everyone knows better than to sneak up on you after what happened last time. I was just so surprised to see you here! I mean, it's been so long since you came to a Society function."

Once again, she could hear voices in the background asking _"Society? What society?"_ as well as _"What the bloody hell is going on?!"_ and she hastily whispered to Valentino to run interference.

_"Alright guys, so the Society of Phoenixes is something we came across a couple years ago. Catie's dickhead boss, Rogers, needed something jacked so we had to go undercover, and by 'we' I mean 'she'…"_

Louisiana coughed pointedly. "Yes, well, I've had a lot going on lately."

"Obviously," Julian answered, eying her hair and with a raised eyebrow and grinning. "The last time I saw you, you were still a brunette. What, not exciting enough for you?"

York's voice cut through the Valentino-based Mayhem of Judgment on the radio _"Louisiana's a_ brunette_?!"_ But was quickly silenced by a well-placed _"Shut up, dude, I'm trying to explain!"_ from Valentino before he continued. _"Anyway, that's where she ran into this dumbass you hear on the radio, he's got a total thing for her, by the way. It'd be funny if it weren't so sad…"_

"Mmm. Well, I just thought it was time for a change." She answered, shrugging and trying not to be distracted by Valentino's extremely biased and slightly inaccurate explanation, before taking a good look at Julian Burgess. He was almost six feet tall, with straight black hair accompanied by twinkling brown eyes, and with some nicely tanned skin. A classically handsome man who certainly knew it.

All in all, a very solid and (dare she say it?) normal guy. Well, as normal as you could be while still a privileged previous frat-boy from Yale and hereditarily a member of some dumb secret society.

But, he was as normal as men around her seemed to get.

"Lulu?" Julian was looking at her concernedly.

A snort at the nickname echoed over the radio but she wasn't entirely sure who it had come from.

"Hmm?" Louisiana was broken out of her reverie.

"Are you alright?" His eyes softened when he looked at her. Ever since 'Lucille' joined the Society of Phoenixes, Julian had taken a liking to the eccentric young woman. She had been someone new in a crowd of old – inexhaustible and ever-interesting with a peculiar way of looking at everything that was conceivable and several that weren't.

"Oh, yes, I'm fine," she answered hastily, cutting off her internal reflection that she really needed to meet some ordinary people.

"Alright, then shall we?" He held out his arm like a gentleman which she graciously accepted.

As they walked, Louisiana tried to focus on both Julian chattering about what she'd missed in the way of social events and Valentino alternating between telling embarrassing stories about her and explaining the hard-core paranoia that was SOP. It continued like that for several minutes until they came to a dead end. On either side of the corridor were two doors that faced each other. On the left door was a black plaque with a white character for 'female' and on the right door was a white plaque with a black character for 'male'.

"Well, it seems that this is where we must part, my lady." He said this very dramatically as he bent over her right hand and kissed the knuckles.

"It seems so," she answered, rolling her eyes at his theatrics.

"Do you have your pass?" Julian asked suddenly.

York, _"Pass? What pass? Louisiana didn't' say anything about a pass—"_

Valentino, _"Dude, just…_ stop _asking questions. You're gonna get a headache. Right, so SOP has all of its members carry around on their person a unique symbol to identify who they are to fellow members without saying it out loud. As if anyone gives a flying fuck. Most people have it stitched into the hems of their clothing or several separate parts that combine to make a single, cohesive whole and what-have-you. You know, subtle. Actually, it's kind of a funny story about how Catie got hers, see what happened was…" _

Louisiana frowned in confusion, and annoyance, before holding up her left hand and showing the man her index finger.

On it was a rather large, thick and heavy signet ring of black gold. Its center was a circle, about a centimeter-and-a-half in diameter, which displayed an ornate crest. It contained a dark silver sword with the tip pointing downward, flanked by two wings made of white diamond that curved artfully up and around the circumference of the circle, and in the background was a five-pointed crown of yellow gold.

She'd been chewed out by the Director for stamping the same emblem on the left thigh of her armor; her response being that her armor was boring and that he needed to get in touch with his inner child.

She also had it tattooed on the ribs below her heart, but only a handful of people in the universe really knew about that, and none of them were in any position to blab.

The diamonds winked brazenly at Julian as he studied Louisiana's hand intensely.

After a moment of his silence, if not Valentino's (_"And_ then _she dyed her hair black with a white spider web in it so that the chick would stop trying to get her to join the convent…"_), the Freelancer couldn't take it anymore, pulled back her hand and said, "Alright, you're making me nervous! What's wrong? Why'd you want to see my pass?"

"Have you ever let someone see it or taken it off for a long period of time?" Julian answered.

"No one even knows it's there and you're avoiding the question."

"No, I'm not. I'm just making sure."

"Oh, for the love of _fuck_! Making sure of what?!"

Valentino, _"Deep breaths, Catie- I mean, Carter! I mean Louis- You know what? Fuck it. Just fuckin' breathe."_

"I met a new member, a woman, a few days ago who had a one like yours. I was wondering if you'd shown it to her and she had a similar one made. You know how you were the first person to wear their sign so openly," he shrugged but it was obvious that he wasn't telling the whole truth. However, Louisiana wasn't concerned with that at the moment because she was struggling with the pressing need to hyperventilate.

Valentino echoed her own thoughts, _"Uh-oh, this is_ not _good. I'm gonna send a message toTeri."_

"Jules," she said carefully. "This is very important. Who was she?"

He noted the change that came over her voice but wasn't overly anxious at that moment, and simply shrugged, "I don't know."

Louisiana took a deep, cleansing breath and tried not to go into full freak-out mode.

"Okay. Okay, what was her name, Jules? What did the symbol look like?"

Julian frowned. "I don't remember her name, exactly, but it was a little weird."

She nodded. That was no help whatsoever, they all had strange names.

"You don't remember, fine. But what did the ring or whatever looked like? Please, this is very important."

Julian unbuttoned the jacked of his navy-blue suit, put his hands on his hips, and looked at the ceiling, trying to recall.

"Well, first of all, it was a necklace and the metal wasn't black. It was more like a dark gray," he started, frowning in concentration. "And the design was simpler than the ring. Diamonds—like the wings on yours—but instead it was two crescent moons. And one was smaller than the other."

"Selene," Louisiana sighed with relief.

Valentino, _"Oh, thank God!"_

Wyoming, _"Who?"_

York, _"Huh?"_

Julian perked up at the name. "Yes! That was it!" He smiled at her as if he had been the one to remember the name instead of Louisiana telling it to him.

Twit. A cute twit, but that never absolved _anyone_ of their crimes. If it did then Louisiana would have used it already.

But since she was no longer panicking she let it go, smiled back, and said, once again apologetic, "Sorry to get all freaked out on you. I was just worried that you ran into someone… well, just someone else."

"It's perfectly alright," Julian answered, nodding in understanding. "I really didn't mean to worry you."

"It's fine," she quickly reassured him before bidding him a quick good-bye as they both stepped through their respective doors.


	5. Filler

**This was, as the title suggests, simply a way to get from point A to point B. Apologies.**

* * *

_Murphy's Second Law: Everything takes longer than you think._

Inside Louisiana's door was an ivory moiré-draped dressing room with a thick gold carpet and plush, ivory upholstered couches and chairs. There were six stalls, three on each side of the room, with mahogany doors and brass handles.

After being stunned by the full effect of a lot expensive gold and ivory décor, Louisiana stepped all the way into the room and heard the hiss of the point of entry closing itself. To the right of the front entrance were several pristine white garment bags, each embossed in gold with a name emblazoned on the front.

Valentino started firing off questions and speculations the second the latch clicked, _"So, why would Selene be hanging around on Earth? Last you checked she was chillin' on one of Saturn's moons doin' the call girl thing, right? Why would she leave all that easy money to join the Society? Do you think it has something to do with the Doc?"_

"Hmm?" Louisiana was pulled out of the confusion of her own thoughts to answer the confusion of Valentino's. "Oh? Nah, man. It doesn't fit his M.O. I think it's just Selene being Selene and doing whateverthefuck she wants, regardless of what other people think of her. We've never been anything like each other, so her joining SOP actually _does_ make sense." Too tired to keep up appearances longer than was strictly necessary, she switched back to her usual northwestern-American accent as she spoke.

York, in a voice that hinted at raised eyebrows, _"Are either of you going to explain any of that?"_

"It's… complicated. Maybe some other time, if you remind me," answered Louisiana, distractedly, as the bag with **ESSEX** written in bold, capital letters caught her eye.

_"Right, after you show me a picture of you with a platinum-blonde faux-hawk, right?"_

"How the hell did– Ah, of course! Valentino. Hey, in my defense, I was _fifteen_ and in a vaguely rebellious phase. But, um, yeah, remind me when we get back to the _Mother of Invention_." She walked towards the bag cautiously, knowing that SOP had some kind of fetish when it came to ridiculous themes.

_"Hey! If I can't call you 'Catie' because it's not your name anymore then_ you _can't call_ me _'Valentino' because that's not_ my _name anymore!"_

Her _Stop arguing because I always win_ sigh was more than enough of a response but she spoke anyway. "Dude, just give it up. Your name is _Roman Valentino_. You just want to sound cooler than you really are. In actuality, I _can_ call you 'Valentino' because it _is_ your real name and you _can't_ call me 'Catie' because it _isn't_ even a respectably nickname. At least, not anymore it ain't."

_"What, because any of your chosen monikers are_ so _much better than mine?"_

Sigh, accompanied by rolled eyes. "Okay _(A)_ my names are actual identities with driver's licenses, I.D. cards, and passports while yours is can only _barely_ be considered a nickname. And _(B)_ all of my names have _character_ while _yours_ makes you sound like you're trying—and failing, might I add—to pick up chicks."

There was a short silence before Valentino harrumphed and muttered _"Bitch"_ under his breath. Louisiana grinned at the small victory. A victory that was evidently destined to be short-lived.

_"So, if mine is just a nickname then, technically, your 'real' name is actually just a nickname, too."_

Sigh, accompanied by an _Ugh!_ and a fierce glare thrown in what she thought might be his direction. "No! Mine is obviously… it's a—well, it's basically a… Oh, fuck you Valentino!"

Valentino cheered at Louisiana's huffy stutter and she could have sworn that she heard York and Wyoming chuckle as well at having her own logic turned back on her. Muttering about her own reasoning being used against her by the Forces of Evil, she turned back toward the bag.

And unzipped it in one swift moment.

Louisiana clapped her hands over her mouth again, "_Oh_, my god…"

Bursting out of the bag was a—what she suspected to be vintage—black corseted Victorian gown, black damasked and complete with layers upon layers of gauzy silver petticoats.

_"Wow. That dress got_ fucked up_. They do know that this is you, right? I mean, you're still you no matter what your name is."_

Louisiana's head jerked away from the borderline-frightening article of clothing, "Wait, what? How can you see the dress?"

_"Oh, that's easy. Kale hacked the camera feeds for me. No audio, but there's video."_

"Fuckin' pervs," she said without any real heat. Then she looked back at the dress. Sigh. "Even in a sanctioned, specialized government program my mother wins again."

_"How does your mother factor into this, Lulu?"_ Obviously she no longer had to wonder who picked up on Jules' pet name.

She didn't know where Valentino was geographically but she hoped that he was close enough for the dead-man-walking to see her expression. "York, just a little friendly warning here, if you _ever_ call me that again, I will personally make sure that your charming wit and good looks are never passed down to future generations."

_"Duly noted. And how, exactly, will you be achieving that_ incredible _feat?"_

Louisiana smirked. "Simple. I'll castrate you."

_"O…_ kay. _Backing up now and let's start again. So, how does your mother factor into this,_ Louisiana_?"?_

Her smirk morphed into a smile. At least he was obedient. "She's… pervasive. This is exactly the kind of crap she'd want her me to wear."

_"A ball gown from the Victorian era?"_ York asked, doubtfully.

"… Okay, so maybe not _exactly_ but it's the same principle. In fact, I made a deal with her that if she left a certain issue alone then I'd always wear lace underwear. She'd been bitching at me about how she wants grandkids and shit and my attitude detracted from my ability to get a man. Or keep one. Her solution: always wear lace."

She stood there, just staring at the voluminous dress, when York's voice echoed over the radio at the same time Valentino's did,

Valentino, _"You know your mom would make a nice pimp."_

York, _"You're wearing lace underwear?"_

This, in turn, made her throw back her head in mirth at both the tone of York's voice and thought of the elegant, dark-haired woman who'd donated genetic material to her, being a pimp.

"That she would," Louisiana agreed, still chuckling. "Especially with her doctorate in psychoanalysis. And yes, York, it's scarlet. Didn't you see back on the roof?"

_"I do my best not to spy on women in the middle of a wardrobe change," _he answered, amiably. _"Wait; let me see if I've got this straight. You are an ex-con working for the UNSC in an experimental program. Your mother, who, I'm assuming, is a micro-manager in the most extreme sense, has a degree in psychology and criticizes your lingerie. And your friend has decided to crash a top-secret, UNSC-sanctioned mission. For the sole purpose of annoying you. Which,_ of course_, just so happens to coincide with a social event of a secret society that you've been invited to and are a part of. Did I leave anything out?"_

Louisiana was very cautious about answering him, positive there was a land mine somewhere in the upcoming conversation. "Um, you left out the part where the guy you're working for neglected to give you almost any information…"

Silence.

More silence.

Immediately followed by more silence.

_"… So, are you really wearing scarlet underwear?"_

Sigh. "Way to focus on the important part, dude."


	6. I Should've Changed My Name To Alice

_Murphy's Fourth Law: If there is a possibility of several things going wrong, the one that will cause the most damage will be the one to go wrong._

Louisiana was contemplating suicide by aspartame-overdose, and wondering if the chandelier in the ballroom was made of diamonds or just glass, when somebody flipped the script on her.

The normal routine was to enter the room, get stared at for lack of wardrobe cooperation, and make polite (read: mind-numbing) chit-chat with the locals. However, by the time she'd reached her third glass of red, fourth reintroduction to some fucking pseudo-aristocrat, and fifth mutter into her earpiece to "Shutthefuckupguys!", Jules had found her and began dragging her to meet the host.

Even as Louisiana marveled at how easy _that_ had been and what a nice change it made, she was thinking, _That can't be right…_ The way the night _should_ have gone was to drink copious amounts of alcohol, make the rounds, figure out which stuffed shirt was Beauregard (made infinitely more difficult by the _masque_ theme), and charm him up to the top floor.

Finding him immediately—or, more accurately, _being summoned_ by him—was not part of the plan and made her level of general suspicion skyrocket up to border-line paranoia.

_There is no such thing as paranoia. There is no such thing as paranoia,_ she repeated her mantra over and over again as weaved through a group of tuxedos trying to impress a mini-dress. It seemed as if Louisiana wasn't the only one who'd balked at the Victorian monstrosities and opted for only the Venetian masks.

_Maybe he's just one of those types who greet every guest in person,_ she thought to herself hopefully.

_Yeah, and maybe York is actually interested in you and not just trying to get Carolina to stop forgetting he's alive,_ replied a nasty little voice in her head.

Louisiana almost snapped back furiously with a retort including the words _off_ and _fuck_ before she realized that she was essentially about to insult herself. _Way to go, dumbass._

Besides, flirtation was _a_ttention without _in_tention and Louisiana was determined to enjoy it, however fleeting it was.

Ducking between another perfectly-suited couple (trying to keep up with Jules' much longer legs), she caught sight of an unmasked man in the middle of the room talking to a woman in a bright red dress. An unmasked man that Jules was heading directly towards.

His back was turned toward them so she couldn't see his face but his thick blonde hair and the way he held himself made Louisiana's stomach drop and set off a warning bell or two. _Dozen_. _There is no such thing as paranoia._

No shit.

When they had reached the man she assumed was Beauregard, her companion politely said, "Excuse me, sir, I found the woman you were looking for."

The man turned around and Louisiana lost her breath and fought the urge to vomit, feeling like she'd been sucker-punched.

It wasn't. It couldn't be. _But it_ is_,_ said that little voice in the back of her mind.

Louisiana was _seriously_ fucked.

She'd know him anywhere. The piercing blue eyes, broad shoulders, sharp cheekbones, and chiseled everything. Not to mention the smug arrogance that permeated every inch of his being, from his perfectly polished shoes to his perfectly coifed curls.

Well… this was an unexpected development. But nothing she couldn't handle. _Yeah, right,_ scoffed the traitorous voice. _Nothing you can't handle… by_ rabitting_. Like you_ always _do when shit gets tough._

But, as his gaze swept over her body, Louisiana couldn't see any recognition, just polite curiosity.

"Of course," the man said in perfectly modulated tones. "I'm delighted to meet you Miss… Essex. I've just heard so much about you that I feel as if I know you already." His full lips curved in a not-quite-smile as he extended his hand towards her.

Louisiana had to fight every survival instinct she had so as not to bolt when she heard that voice again. _Calm yourself,_ she silently ordered as she extended her own hand. And nearly yanked it away when he brushed his lips across the top of her hand in a would-be gentlemanly kiss, a mockery of the stunt Jules had pulled in the hall.

_Five years is a long time. You're not a scared little girl any more,_ she told herself firmly. _You are an agent of Project Freelancer, a soldier, and you will _not _run from this room screaming "Bloody murder!" You're wearing a mask so he shouldn't recognize you. Now, stop being rude, smile, and say something polite, God dammit!_

Louisiana smiled graciously and replied, in her British lilt, "Well, thank you so much for the compliment, Mr. Beauregard, but I'm afraid it's not exactly deserved. I am just, for all intents and purposes, the black sheep of the Phoenixes." She made a point of keeping eye contact and letting him hold her hand for a few seconds longer than necessary before taking it back.

The man smiled boyishly (completely aware of how attractive he was) before replying, sincerity made flesh, "Oh, please, Ms. Essex, feel free to call me _Antoine_!" 'Antoine' winked at her before whispering, conspiratorially, "Mr. Beauregard makes me feel old."

"Well then, _Antoine_, I must insist that you call me Lucille." Louisiana kept up her smile, and even threw in a little laugh for everyone's benefit. But her stomach almost rebelled when his smile widened, as if delighted that she was playing his little game.

Evidently, he knew _exactly_ who she was. That was the point of bringing her over here in the middle of the crowded room, invading her space. Invading her life.

_The bastard always did like to play with his food,_ she thought bitterly.

Then he gestured for the red-clad woman to join their cozy little group of one girl-child on the verge of a panic attack, one cocky prick in a charcoal suit, and one blissfully oblivious moron.

The Red Dress stopped at his side, cringing so subtly when he put his arm around her waist that Louisiana didn't even think he noticed (_Interesting,_ she thought, clicking the mental _File and save_ button), and looked the Freelancer over.

Louisiana stiffened when she saw the familiar tactic of sizing up an opponent, automatically straightening her back and lifting her chin defiantly (then rolling her eyes internally when she noticed her own reaction).

Quirking an eyebrow, she gave the slender woman the exact same treatment. Louisiana glanced at her impeccably tight little body in her impeccably tight little red dress, and the strappy gold heels that she wore to disguise her lack of a vertical advantage, and doubted that there was even an inch in difference between their heights. Her legs were long and sturdy, her skin that beautiful, porcelain type (nearly making Louisiana scream with envy) and her breasts were those perfect, perky B cups that men were always going on about.

_Bite me,_ the Freelancer thought to herself.

By the time her eyes had gotten above Red's cleavage, Louisiana was already green with jealously (as opposed to the still-present need to puke) and hating herself for it. But she forced herself to commit every part of the woman to memory. If that bastard was flaunting her then she must have been important.

The top half of Red's face was obscured by a Colombina identical to Louisiana's own (though it was red with gold accents instead of black with silver) but enough could still be seen to know that she didn't have a single _fucking_ freckle on her heart-shaped face.

Angels would have been afraid of marking up that oh-so-perfect, Rose McGowan complexion.

Louisiana also noted how pretty the tiny, tightly packed diamonds rimming the eye-holes (like it was designed by a color-confused raccoon) looked as they complemented those huge grey eyes. Not to mention how the golden plumes looked against all those dark, thick, silky curls that cascaded down to Red's waist, the front locks pulled back so as not to impede her view of the world. And didn't that golden, sparkling dust swirling from the corners of her eyes around and down onto her cheekbones in little spirals just look beautiful.

Suffice it to say that, despite her fascinating reaction to 'Antoine's' touch, Louisiana hated the woman. Everything about Red brought to mind every single one of Louisiana's insecurities…

After a silent moment (though it seemed much longer), during which the women scoped each other out, the dark-haired beauty before Louisiana stretched out her hand.

"I'm so pleased to meet you, Ms. Essex. My name is Jeanette Yankee," she said faintly, her voice making Louisiana almost jerk back in surprise. It was soft and warm with a subtle, Tennessee twang (not to be confused with the Director's Texan drawl) and made her reconsider how old the girl was. Yes, _girl_, because Jeanette couldn't have been any older than herself. Quite possibly even younger.

Mentally shaking her head (after all these years that bastard hadn't changed a bit), Louisiana took the girl's hand, shook it firmly, and gave her a genuine little smile. Jeanette's plump, shell-pink lips curved upward faintly (apparently Jeanette did everything faintly) in response.

"_Lucille_. Please," she just couldn't resist the urge to be nice to the little sweetling. Then she glanced at the man next to Jeanette and lost her smile.

What did he want? To freak Louisiana the fuck out? Check. To make her worry about every single person that she knew and had ever come into contact with? Check. But what else could it be?

Then Louisiana saw the blonde, blue-eyed bastard's look of genial innocence falter as his eyes glazed over for a second. She peered inconspicuously into first one ear then the other, under the pretense of inspecting the other guests.

Yup.

Lodged discreetly into his left ear was an earpiece identical to Louisiana's own. Unable to keep herself from asking, she piped up, while snatching another glass of wine from a passing tray, "So, _Antoine_, I'm afraid I'm a bit stumped." She sipped the sweet, albeit alcohol-tinged, liquid before continuing. "Certainly, it's been quite a bit of time since my last attendance to one of our functions, but I've been careful to keep abreast of all Society goings-on. However, I can't seem to remember ever hearing your name. Are you new to the Phoenixes?"

_Sip._

Louisiana couldn't help but relish the annoyance that flashed over his face when she pulled him away from what information he was receiving (_Ha, suck it!_) but his expression cleared immediately and he smiled again, though it was much more strained.

_Sip._

"Yes. Brand new, in fact," he replied, distractedly. He pressed his lips together in a thin line as he went back to listening and Louisiana took the opportunity to idly admire the mouth that a woman would betray her moral fiber to bite into. Too bad it was full of forked tongue.

She took another sip, this one more appreciative than the others as she savored both the taste and his expression. Obviously he'd expected her to flip at seeing him, so she'd do just the opposite, being cool, calm and totally, completely sane.

Well, at least it was a plan.

His expression dropped for a split second again, and a look of alarm passed over his face. "Ah–I am _so_ sorry, my friends, but I'm afraid I must depart." Then he looked at Jeanette and said, "Would you mind accompanying me? There seems to be a bit of a security-snafu and I've a feeling I could use your… particular talents." His voice would have seemed smooth and effortless to anybody else but Louisiana had known this man for _thirteen years_ of her goddamn life and could detect the undercurrent of urgency as he spoke.

Jeanette's eyes widened, she obviously heard it too, and nodded. He apologized again (Jeanette adding her own into the mix) but before 'Antoine' left he looked directly into Louisiana's eyes and promised, "I'll be sure to see you again before this is all over."

Louisiana couldn't contain a shudder as the two walk off, their stride purposeful.

"Well," Jules said, his eyebrows creased. "That was a bit weird."

_Yeah, no shit, Sherlock,_ Louisiana thought as she shook her head and excused herself as well, placing her glass on a passing tray as she walked. She looked back at him as she exited the room and noted his abandoned-puppy expression but pushed her guilt to the back of her mind.

Away from prying eyes, she looked down the hallway and contemplated her options. To the right was the elevator and to the left was a door with a sign indicating that it led to the stairs.

_"Louisiana? Are you alright? Can you hear me?"_ York's voice made her jump and she noticed, once again, the strange echo of his voice. Like it was being transmitted into a large room before being relayed to her… Her eyes widened with comprehension.

Well, _unholy fuck_.

Louisiana had her heels off and was booking it up the stairs within seconds.

"Foxtrot 12, initiate immediate radio-silence! Sever all communications until further notice and radio for evac! _Now_!" _And get my fucking armor onto the roof, while you're at it!_

She didn't even wait for a confirmation of her orders before she switched channels.

"Kale, are you there?" There was a slight pause before a single beep was heard.

Louisiana sighed in relief. "Instruction: comms One-Niner-Papa-Charlie-Zero-Five." After another pause, there came a series of animalistic growls and hisses. A pseudo-Morse code, developed between the two specifically for a situation like this, which translated into:

**Executing.**

Louisiana saw the sign proclaiming which level she'd reached. She'd have growled as well if she had any breath to waste. _Another_ forty _levels? Oh, for the love of_ fuck_!_

"Okay, good. Listen, it's a bit of a _situation_ over here, you know? Would you mind cleaning house? Or is that too difficult?" She knew that Kale was a sweetie but also that he was the very definition of vanity and the only way to make sure that he did something was to insinuate that he couldn't.

Louisiana wasn't sure whether or not she was imagining things as she checked all the doors on her current level—she really didn't have time to jimmy a lock, though she would if none of them were open—but Kale's silence seemed a bit resentful.

**… All channels or just this one?**

"Meh. Whatever you think is necessary."

**Affirmative. Do you want me to get your armor onto the roof, too?**

Louisiana could have very well screamed when the last door at the end of the corridor was locked as well. "Nah, York's got that covered."

**Who's that, your boyfriend?**

"Oh, _can it_ you little pink cock-bite!"

**I'm lightish red!**

"Ugh! Could you do a favor for me and open this door? I have an idea for a quicker way to the roof…"


	7. The Folly of Your Follies

**A/N: I'm back, bitches! And with my longest episode yet! Seriously, it seems that summer school is good for something other than essentially buying a credit-it eradicates writer's block!... Enjoy, or not!**

Lots of love to you all!

* * *

_Murphy's Seventh Law: Left to themselves, things tend to go from bad to worse._

Ten minutes later, Louisiana was fumbling with the straps to secure her helmet. Up until that point she'd barely dared to hope that she might get out of her situation alive—clinging to the prospect of getting on her armor was what kept her mind going. By the time she had finished her radio-call to the evac Pelican, and noticed that the echo was gone, she didn't even have the opportunity to jinx herself by thinking she was out of the woods before the back of her neck prickled.

Louisiana whirled around and her blood went cold.

There he was.

His white armor, GRENADIER helmet, and the steel-and-red emblem on his shoulder were like her reoccurring nightmare come alive. And _unholy fuck_ was it scary!

They stared at each other for an agonizingly long ten seconds.

He was the first one to actually speak, mostly because Louisiana was desperately trying to will herself out of the situation, but also because—what the hell did you say to someone you sincerely hoped was dead and you'd never have to see them again?

"Hello, Hex." Oh, apparently _that_ was what you say.

Louisiana's mind had been on a panic-induced hiatus until that point, but she found her voice.

"'Sup, Cissy." The silence darkened at the reminder of his own not-actually-used-when-the-subject-is-within-earsh ot nickname.

She glanced at her HUD, hoping against hope that she'd see a friendly green blip indicating that help was within range. No such luck.

"New armor, I see," Cisco observed casually. "Not the color I'd choose for you, if I'm being honest. It doesn't really match you complexion.

"I like the helmet, though, CQC right? Doesn't stand up to as much damage, but it gets the job done I suppose. What made you ditch the Regulation Black when you got back in the game?" His laughter suddenly filled the too-close air. "_Hell_, what made you get back in the game in the first place?!"

Louisiana shifted her weight, trying to move closer to the edge of the roof without Cisco noticing. If it came down to a fight—and, honestly, _when_ it came down to a fight—she wanted as much space between them as possible. "Well, when I heard some rumors about the Doc resurfacing I couldn't exactly ignore them, could I? The new armor was just a plus. Severing all ties, you know?"

She took another small step, her heart stopping when he seemed to follow the movement. Letting Cisco know that you were afraid of him was never a good idea.

"Yes, I couldn't believe it when we got an anonymous tip telling us to dig into the files of the Society of Phoenixes. Particularly that of one Lucille Essex." He took a deliberate step toward her, propelling Louisiana several steps backwards. "Imagine my surprise when I saw that _you_ were Lucille."

_Oh, I can imagine, alright. __And imagine_ my _surprise when I realized that_ you _were_ Beauregard_._

Cisco gave another harsh laugh that went straight to her spine. "_Essex_! That alone should have tipped me off! Still, I can't believe you used your mother's maiden name." He was practically doubled over by then, allowing Louisiana to put another few feet between them. "And that _accent_! Babe, you nearly had _me_ fooled!"

She had to admit—even through the mind-numbing fear—that her ego took a blow at that one. When could she ever _not_ do a good impression?

"Who had the nerve to call Mother a maiden?" Louisiana muttered in lieu of defending her grifting abilities. She _was_ the second-shittiest liar this side of the galaxy so no amount of changing her appearance would help her if she did that weird stutter thing when she got nervous in the middle of a con.

Cisco straightened before looking at her again. "So, Hex, what brings you to my little get-together?"

She didn't dare correct him the way she did Valentino. "… Just a little recon work," Louisiana shrugged, nonchalantly, her brain finding familiar pathways around the terror. "My higher-ups heard of some Insurrectionist activity in the area and I was sent to check it out."

She could hear his smile when he spoke. "Insurrectionists, huh? Don't know about that. But who's this higher-up? I thought you were done with the military. Last I heard you were on Reach with that little whore."

"You watch your mouth! Didn't your mama ever tell you it's impolite to bad-mouth someone who's saved your pathetic life?" Louisiana snarled, anger beating out fear. She always hated the way he treated Terence.

"Ooh, still just as feisty. But I see you haven't given up on answering a question with a question when you're trying to avoid a subject. Are you trying to avoid the subject of the Director?"

Louisiana felt the blood drain from her face and prayed to anyone willing to listen that her voice wouldn't break. Karma owed her a few favors over the years, right? "Why did you ask if you already know the answer?"

Cisco smirked. "Where would the fun be in that? You know how much I love seeing you squirm," his voice turned darker.

Louisiana's radio crackled and she heard Four-Seven-Niner's voice telling her that evac was only a few minutes out. She just had to keep him talking for that long. No problem. "So, who's the girl in red—your new toy? I notice she doesn't seem particularly fond of you."

Cisco chuckled. "Oh, you mean Jinx? No one you need to worry about. But, please, you're attempts at distracting me are about as good as your attempts to get away from all this." As he said _all this_ he moved his arms in a broad, sweeping gesture that encompassed himself, Louisiana, and—conceivably—all that they entailed. "Why don't you want to talk about Dr. Church, I wonder?"

He took another few steps in her direction and Louisiana's legs hit the ledge. She tried to move to the side but he blocked her.

"Perhaps, it's because you don't want to admit that you're in the same exact situation as you were before," Cisco mused aloud. "Only now the man is a Texan."

"The Director is _nothing_ like before!" Louisiana leaped to his defense without thinking. She didn't like Director Church, but she didn't hate him like most thought. What he was doing, what he was _planning_ on doing, was… less-than-palatable, but she understood it. Memories had a way of weighing you down, so she got that he wanted to let them go…

"Hmmm, such fierce loyalty to a man you don't even know. Isn't that… _interesting_?"

Louisiana moved again to pass him, and when Cisco moved again to block her, and it was with relief that she struck out at his face.

It was just a feint, and when he ducked she slammed his stomach with her knee, but he twisted at the last moment so that the blow didn't fall true, coming back with a fist to her midsection.

She took the hit, just to see how much he'd changed, and wished she hadn't.

This wasn't one of the Standard Issue soldiers that she liked to tease and train with, whose blows hardly touched her, even with five of them on her at once.

Cisco was a man who could knock the wind out of her—who always could—a man who could fight, who knew his strengths and weaknesses and how to work with them. So, he wanted a fight?

Well, she'd give him one.

She jumped and kicked at his chest. He crashed into the ground and Louisiana threw herself on top of him, struck him in the face once, twice, three times, and kneed him in the side before he was able to throw her off.

She was on him again like a wildcat, but as she tried to trap his arms he flipped her onto her back and pinned her with the weight of his armor.

A whole new wave of panic washed over Louisiana at this, a familiarity that she didn't appreciate, and she curled her legs up and heaved him away. Then they were on their feet again, crouching, circling, striking at each other with hands and feet.

She aimed a kick at his head but he ducked and came back with a blow to her stomach and, when it connected, she could feel something underneath his fist give way.

Louisiana stumbled back, the pain making her vision go dark for a moment.

Trying not to cry out, she kicked at Cisco's stomach again, but he caught her leg and used her own momentum to pull her closer, pick her up by the throat, and slam her down onto the concrete. Louisiana vaguely wondered if someone could actually _die_ from sheer pain. It didn't seem physically possible, but then… plenty of shit she'd seen in her life didn't.

Louisiana heard someone on the radio but the air _whoosh_-ed out of her lungs and the lack of oxygen and overload of her pain receptors made it so she couldn't answer; couldn't breathe; couldn't think.

She tried to get her breath back and squirmed underneath Cisco, the terror of being trapped the only thing on her mind, and managed to wrench her arms out of his grasp.

She kicked out blindly—connecting solidly with a heavy weight that cursed and rolled off her—then spun away as Cisco doubled over and put a dozen paces between herself and her white-armored opponent. Trying not to black out or throw up, she looked across the rooftop and saw the most beautiful sight she could never have imagined:

York and Maine waving at her from the open door of Four-Seven-Niner's Pelican, with Wyoming and Washington behind him.

_Whoever's listening, thank you!_ Louisiana thought to the universe, with the fervor of a Team Edward fan.

Momentarily forgetting her out-of-breath adversary, not to mention her own injuries, Louisiana took a step in their direction, glad that safety was so close but frustrated that it was so far away.

She snorted… Safety. _Right._

_Why can't anything ever be easy?_ Louisiana began to think before she was cut off by a strong, unrelenting arm wrapping around her throat, pulling her against another set of armor and cutting off her airway.

She another arm snake around her torso, pinning her arms to her sides and nearly making her pass out. Then she heard Cisco snarl, "_Leaving so soon?_" his voice ugly, and Louisiana struggled, desperately trying to gain even a millimeter of air.

Lights popped before her eyes.

Then she could hear soft little _put-put_ sounds and Cisco yelling but it all seemed very far away, as if it was coming from the end of a very long tunnel. The realization that these could very well be her last moments made Louisiana think, disgustedly, _I can't believe_ this _is the_ one _bet that I win,_ and wonder vaguely why she'd ever make a bet that she could never collect on.

Then her vision went dark.

Without warning, the arms restraining her were released and Louisiana fell forward onto her hands and knees, fighting the instinct to take great gulps of air, and further damaging her ribs, forcing herself to take shallow breaths.

Her entire frame shook. Louisiana looked around as her hearing returned, focusing on the sound of gunfire and York's voice over the radio.

"Louisiana? Louisiana! Can you hear me? Are you alright?"

Still gasping, the silver Freelancer got to her feet. Maine was firing a pistol lazily at an adjacent rooftop and Wash had one hand on York's shoulder, looking ready to restrain their infiltration specialist at a moment's notice. Wyoming was sitting down, legs crossed, looking bored in a way that only the incredibly British can manage.

"I'm f-fine," Louisiana croaked, rubbing her throat with one hand and giving a shaky two-fingered-salute with the other. She gave a cough and cleared her throat, flinching at the consequential bolt of agony.

"What happened? I was kinda blacked out there at the end." Louisiana saw her armored colleagues visibly relax at the sound of her rueful voice. As a general statement, they may not like her all the time, or even most of the time, but she was still part of the team, and they were still worried.

She heard York snort from ten feet ahead of her and ten feet up, where Four-Seven-Niner had them hovering. "Yeah, when Maine saw that guy in white cinch in his rear naked choke, he had the _brilliant_ idea to _open fire_ in the _middle_ of a _civilian-populated area_."

The agent in question ignored his irate teammate's pointed tone as he reloaded his M6G and began to fire again, completely unabashed in his behavior.

Louisiana gave a small, shaky smile. "Figured you try shooting your way out, big guy? Mix things up a little?" All Maine did in response was raise one massive shoulder in a shrug, before resuming his utter waste of ammo.

Louisiana couldn't help but find comfort in these little things, these tiny pieces of normal; York's disapproval of how Maine tended to operate; Wash fretting about everything and nothing; Four-Seven-Niner yelling at her to _Get the fuck in!_ while making some kind of snarky comment about Louisiana's mission success rate.

Maybe, if she just breathed it all in, things might not seem so horrible?

Of course, the fact that _this_ was her normal was disturbing in and of itself. When had PFL turned into her norm? Was it when she had begun referring to Agent Washington as _Wash_ in the relative safety of her head? Or, perhaps, when everything she said about Maine had taken on an affectionate undertone that even Terence pointed out in their communiqués? After she'd met Dan, the Irish Standard Issue soldier aboard the _Mother of Invention_? Definitely after she met Dan. Most likely, it was when she began to actually care about these guys.

When she started to genuinely want to help.

"So, what happened, exactly? Where's—" Louisiana was cut off when she heard York shout, Wash curse, Maine growl, and felt another armored body ram into her from the left.

_Oh, for_ fuck's _sake!_ Louisiana thought exasperatedly as her vision stuttered once again, for the third time in the last ten minutes. She rolled to her feet and faced her new opponent, gritting her teeth against the feeling of bones grinding against each other as she did, worrying about internal bleeding.

Then Louisiana blinked, seeing the emblem on their armor: Two white crescent moons, one smaller than the other, superimposed onto a grey circle. "_Selene?!_"

She was _positive_ that it was her old friend/enemy/companion. _Friendenemopanions_, Louisiana suddenly remembered Selene calling them the last time they'd spoken.

The black suit of armor before her tilted its head as if considering the Freelancer. Then it pulled back in surprise. "_Catie?!_ Is that _you_?"

The silver soldier jerked out of her ready-for-a-fight stance—cursing herself for both the fast movement and the fact that the movement caused her pain in the first place—at the confirmation. And that _fucking_ nickname.

Louisiana took an abrupt step forward, turning off her radio in the process. Some conversations just weren't meant for other ears. "What are you _doing_ here? How long have you been working with them?"

Confusion and desperation and, most of all, _anger_ colored Louisiana's voice as she spoke, causing it to crack.

The woman before Louisiana made a _time-out_ gesture, before fiddling with the straps that secured her Standard Issue black helmet and removing it.

Selene looked _very_ different from the last time Louisiana had seen her in person, three years previously.

No longer did her olive-toned skin have a healthy glow; and her large, dark eyes had even larger, darker circles underneath them. Her body language and posture spoke of extreme, prolonged exhaustion—more than just an all-nighter or three. She didn't even have a lick of make-up on, odd for Selene in particular because she was never _really_ cut out for the life of a soldier.

She looked _terrible_.

Louisiana shook her head and pulled off her own helmet. "Of course it's me, Moonbeam, but—"

She began to ask again why Selene was there, but was cut off.

"What did you _do_ to your _hair_?!"

Louisiana smiled bemusedly, nodding at Selene's inky locks, none of which were more than a few inches long, "I could ask you the same."

Selene frowned at the response. "Wait, what?"

She held up a hand and just shook her head before Louisiana could speak. "Never mind, it doesn't matter. What are you doing here, Catie? I thought we agreed that _I'd_ get the info and you'd trip the perimeter alarms to draw away the security!"

_That_ one, Louisiana had to admit, threw the beaten and bloody soldier for a loop. "… Um, come again?"

"Your last communiqué!" Selene exploded, the closest thing to angry that Louisiana had ever seen. "You fucking _insisted_ that I be the one to grab the information and you be the distraction! What the hell happened to 'Stick to the plan, no matter what'?"

Great.

Now she had a headache on top of a couple of broken ribs—and possible concussion, if the weird-ass hallucination she was currently experiencing was anything to go by.

Louisiana's attention was caught by Washington, who seemed to be shouting, working with Maine to hold back York, who seemed to be trying to jump out of the still-hovering Pelican.

She was tempted to turn on the radio to see what was going on, but settled for irritably making a _Relax_ motion with her hands at them before turning back to Selene. "Listen, Moonbeam, ya know I love ya and yer weird, Japanese warrior-goddess thing ya got goin' on, but I got no clue what you're talkin' 'bout."

As she spoke, Louisiana unconsciously slipped into using a Southern Belle—she drew on her memories of Director Church's Texan drawl for inspiration. It was an old habit from when they worked together and knew that Selene hated it with an irrational passion.

Looking confused, and appropriately annoyed, Selene opened her mouth to respond but was stopped by the sound of a door being blown off its hinges.

Literally.

Louisiana had just enough time to think _Misery would have made that explosion bigger_, before security guards began to pour out onto the roof.

Selene rolled her eyes and lobbed a grenade into the central mass, pulled a Tactical/Hard Case from the leg of her armor, and tossed it to Louisiana.

The Freelancer caught it reflexively and looked at Selene quizzically.

The young woman in black shoved her helmet back on and shouted over the chaos the her grenade had caused, "Everything you told me to retrieve is in there!"

Selene turned toward the soldiers, pulling the gun from her back-holster as she did, while Louisiana examined the container.

Her fingers were on the latch and she was about to open it when a loud burst of automatic gunfire sounded.

The silver-clad soldier jumped about a foot in the air, only keeping hold of the Tactical/Hard Case by way of body conditioning and muscle memory—drill sergeants and their maniacal attitude about _Never, ever drop your weapon!_ were good for something, it seemed.

Unfortunately, that movement caused Louisiana to remember her damaged ribs via a demanding bolt of agony.

"_Goddammit_," she growled painfully, clutching her mid-section and holding back a whimper only through sheer force of will.

Selene looked back at her sympathetically.

"Sorry, Catie," she muttered, firing her assault rifle again at the soldiers at the other end of the building, causing her companion to flinch. "It's the only military-grade weapon with easily procurable ammo."

Louisiana suppressed a shiver and shoved her own helmet back on, attaching the Hard Case to the silver metal on her left leg before pulling her M6G from its holster. She stepped up next to Selene and leveled the pistol at the dozen or so men who were attempting to organize themselves—they certainly didn't want to end up with the dozen or so bodies that littered the roof.

Upon seeing the younger woman's actions, however, Selene put a restraining hand on Louisiana's shoulder and shook her head.

"You have to get out of here, Catie," she said quietly.

Louisiana looked at her incredulously. "And leave you alone with this shit?" She nodded at the armored security forces—which were looking more and more like mercenaries with every passing second as they regrouped and began firing in return—as she spoke. "No _fucking_ way!"

Selene snorted. "Do you really think I would come without a back-up plan?"

There was a beat of silence before Louisiana spoke. "I'm just gonna let that one go…"

… And could practically hear Selene roll her eyes. "_You_ just go, Catie. I have this under control."

Louisiana raised an eyebrow at that assessment of the situation, but relented.

"Fine," she ground out, as she turned her radio back on. "But when this is over we're going to have a _very_ serious conversation about a very serious problem with your brain being missing."

As she spoke, Louisiana walked up to the edge of the building, testing her weight on the ledge and running through what she could remember about physics, specifically gravity and force, before backing up a few paces.

She backed up a few more, just for good measure, as Selene muttered a sarcastic "Can't wait" and, after a quick salute, jumped into the fray.

Louisiana cackled and shook her head in sympathy for the poor saps the "Japanese warrior-goddess" was about to decimate, before crouching like a foot-racer.

The suddenly-nervous Freelancer took a series of deep breaths to clear her head as she ignored the various shouts and pleas for mercy behind her. After a moment, though, she had to stop before she hyperventilated.

Losing her nerve, Louisiana straightened and turned toward the black-armored woman whirling in-between this soldier, then that one, with a wickedly sharp blade in each hand.

She swallowed apprehensively before yelling to Selene, her voice trying for breezy and missing, "Wish me luck?"

The woman just laughed outright at her and—between burying one knife up to the hilt in one soldier's neck and smacking the butt of the other into another soldiers' visor—called back to her, amused, "Not on your life! But I _will_ say 'don't choke'!"

"Gee… thanks," Louisiana replied, rolling her eyes at the reference.

You fall off a building because of nerves _one time_ and people never let you live it down!

Turning back toward the direction of the Pelican, muttering something about flying fish, Louisiana got back into her crouch, took three quick breaths—mindful of her injuries, at first, before thinking, _Screw it. Can't get much worse and, either way, it doesn't matter_—… and ran.

* * *

**A/N: Lots of love and cookies to all who review/comment! And my undying love to any who critique or give me some legitimate con-crit! Also, I just noticed that I referred to this as an "episode" instead of a "chapter" in the beginning notes. :D**


	8. But I Play One On TV

**A/N: I make no guarantees about the quality of this chapter. I'm just as sick of this as you are and just want to get it over with. Lots of love!**

* * *

_Murphy's Eighth Law: If everything seems to be going well, you have obviously overlooked something._

Agent York of Project Freelancer liked to think he was a pretty patient guy (and he was!).

So, when _Lulu_ abandoned the plan at the slightest hint of trouble, he didn't stress (from what he could tell, she was flighty like that, so it wasn't much of a surprise).

And when she revealed 'Plan I', he just went along with it (despite the fact that it meant he was stuck on the roof of an entirely different building while his barely adult companion did all of the work).

Being startled on his roof by some curly-headed asshole—seeming to be of Italian-Spanish descent—with a wickedly mischievous grin and some serious hacking skills (not to mention some seriously classified equipment) had tested his resolve a bit, of course.

Seriously, he'd spent the better part of the last eight months trying to establish a good rapport with Louisiana—trying to keep up with her ever-evolving personality and finally realizing that he needed to take baby steps with the young woman—and some young, lean, cocky… _guy_ comes along and they fall easily into the kind of routine York wanted with her?

(Because it was easy for anyone with eyes to see that didn't _really_ hate him—it was obviously just the way that they showed affection. York had a feeling that Louisiana and "Valentino", as she stubbornly called him, had known each other for a very long time.)

Fuck. That.

Anyway, so after the shock of all… _that_, the tan-armored Freelancer finally felt like he had a handle on things. It even got kind of nice, in a weird way; he learned more about Louisiana from half an hour of Valentino's anecdotes and explanations than nine months of (usually one-sided) conversations and a painfully awkward Secret Santa gift exchange.

(For instance, he now knew her _real_ last name; he knew that she had an honorary-sister named Terence living on Reach and that Valentino was her honorary-brother-in-law; he knew that she began doing weird things with her hair when she was fifteen and decided that she needed some kind of signature thing of her own; and he knew that was a very good baker, but only did so in two very specific situations—when she was very at ease with her surroundings and when she was extremely worried.)

Then, it seemed to York, they began speaking in code.

All that came out of their mouths, though mostly just to each other, was Unfamiliar-Name this and Sinister-Sounding Reference that.

Honestly, York felt like he'd somehow stumbled into a spy movie. The analogy seemed particularly appropriate after she left the dressing room (before all hell seemed to break loose) when he heard her mutter, absently, "I don't make the rules of espionage, I just abide by them."

The quote—because it _definitely_ sounded like a quote or reference to something—made Valentino twist his lips, almost ruefully, and York heard Louisiana breath huff out in what he was learning to identify as genuine, if somewhat-wry, amusement.

So, yeah, he got through all of it with relatively few outbursts and York commended himself on that. He even got a few tips and pointers from Valentino about Louisiana (Catie?), and how to deal with her, before the man got a transmission of his own and rushed off while the unarmored Freelancer climbed her way to the roof.

Though Valentino did yell something to him by way of (hasty) explanation, York didn't catch much of it because Four-Seven-Niner had just radio-ed him and ordered him to Wyoming's building for pick-up. In fact, the only things that York really understood was something about birthdays, good luck in threes, and a request to pass on well wishes to his usually-silver-clad colleague.

However, through all of this, the only thing that legitimately pissed him off was Louisiana's constant severing of communications.

They were supposed to be a _team_, goddamn it! How in the seven hells were they supposed to "work together" if she kept turning her _fucking_ radio off?!

A fat lot of good it would do to tell her that, though. The last time someone had confronted her about it (read: yelled at her for pulling that "lone wolf" bullshit during a mission), about six weeks previously, Louisiana had launched herself at them. Only North's quick reaction (not helped in the least by his snickering twin) had saved Oregon from being "pulverized by that hellcat", as the ever-mild Colorado had put it.

Immediately after that, however, Carolina had stormed over, pulled Louisiana out of the (Red? Blue?) base, away from earshot, and had a serious… _discussion_ with her.

There wasn't really any other way to describe it.

Everyone watched through the windows of the base and no one had a better word for it. There was a lot of gesticulating, and less-than-friendly body language, but there didn't seem to be any anger and there certainly wasn't any shouting. If anything, they were talking in tones lower than average.

Afterward, Louisiana didn't say much during the Pelican-ride, or when docking in the _Mother of Invention_, or during the mission report. Not a single word…

Later, when they'd been dismissed by the Director to shower and get something from the mess hall, York had tried to talk to her. After calling her name a few times and failing to garner her attention, York had spun her around by the shoulder… and gotten a fully-armor fist to his unhelmeted-face for his trouble (most of the team having thrown theirs into the disposal bin, knowing they'd never get that gunk off).

Louisiana had stared at him for a moment then, their eyes locked, before she turned away from him and the medics rushing to the hall to see if he was injured. And her let her go without a fight.

York needed stitches for his upper lip due to her impromptu and sloppy punch—five, to be exact—but he didn't pay much attention to that little detail, because he'd seen her face.

He was the only one who did… The only one to see the tearstains and trembling lip…

So, if York confronted Louisiana about her latest bout of independence then, at best, he'd be attacked by her (how many times did that make, by now?).

Or, at worst, she break down and cry.

Great.

Those were just some thrilling options there.

All of this rushed through the male Freelancer's head as he _patiently_ watched his young co-worked by attacked, not once but twice, before settling down to have a nice little chat with the short-haired Asian chick that had tackled her (where the hell had she even come from?).

But only, of _fucking_ course, after turning off her goddamn radio again.

About ten minutes of inaudible conversation passed before there was an explosion (reminiscent of something he'd once seen Missouri pull off), the door leading to the roof was blown off, and a bunch of agitated-looking soldiers followed it.

York relaxed considerably when the unfamiliar woman wisely threw a grenade at them and soon began firing. He calmed down even more when Louisiana turned her radio back on, even though her words about someone's brain being missing made no sense.

Wash looked at him quizzically but York just shrugged. He was gonna go out on a limb and assume that she wasn't speaking to any of them. They all had brains, even if not all of them used theirs.

"Hey, York! Get up here a second, will ya?"

The Freelancer in question looked behind him at the sound of Four-Seven-Niner's voice, and made his way to the woman's home-turf.

"'Sup, Four-Seven? We runnin' out of gas?" York joked, keeping half his attention on Louisiana, who was currently asking her friend (Selene?) to wish her luck.

"No. But I _am_ getting some weird energy readings from the building… It's funny, because they almost look like—"

But York didn't hear what the readings almost looked like because Wash took the opportunity to shout, "Is she about to do what I _think_ she's about to do?!"

York had just enough time to rush back to the open doors of the Pelican, to see Louisiana crouched like a foot-racer waiting for the sound of the gun, before she began running full-tilt toward their Pelican.

If asked, the Freelancer would never quite be able to articulate exactly what happened next.

Time didn't slow down, like it did in books or movies, more like York's brain sped up in its processing of the world. He was everything crystal clear, as it happened.

York was the almost-imperceptible hesitation in Louisiana's movements as she sprinted toward them, almost jerky in their execution (had she been injured?). He saw exactly how she positioned her boot on the ledge of the roof before catapulting herself off of the building. He saw her arm outstretched as she cut through the air.

He didn't even realized that he'd been moving until he felt Louisiana's hand in his own, catching her so she didn't fall, and nearly wrenching his arm from its socket.

He wasn't the only one holding onto her, though.

York looked to his right when he saw a large, white-armored hand grasping Louisiana's left forearm. Maine, it turned out, had also dived to the edge of the ramp to keep the young Freelancer from falling to her untimely—yet totally deserved, because what the _fuck_ was she thinking?!—demise.

By the time they'd hoisted her into the Pelican and closed the doors, Four-Seven-Niner was already heading her bird into atmo.

Louisiana, instead of getting up and taking a proper seat, just flopped onto the cold metal grating of the floor and panted as their pilot radio-ed the _Mother of Invention_. She was still just lying there, though she'd managed to pull off her helmet, and still breathing heavily when Four-Seven-Niner called back to them—or, rather, called back to _her_.

"You know," she said conversationally. "I could have just landed and picked you up."

Louisiana gave a wry chuckle that turned into a wracking cough as she got up from the floor, one arm wrapped awkwardly around her mid-section.

"Where would be the fun in that?" She replied, her voice innocent, but the following chuckle (sans worrying cough) was oddly dark.

"Command wants to know if you got you came for," the older woman in the front called to her.

The other agents looked at Louisiana, who merely shrugged.

"Let's see," she said, reaching for an addition to her armor that York didn't remember ever seeing before. Louisiana fingered the latch for a few seconds before opening the Tactical/Hard Case and reaching in.

Everyone in the Pelican held their breath as Louisiana pulled out a small object and held it to the light. They all breathed a sigh of relief when it turned out to be a standard data-stick.

"That would be a… yes?"

Even Louisiana looked a bit uncertain as Wash's voice answered the snarky female pilot.

She stared at the object intently, one arm still wrapped loosely round her abdomen Louisiana was so lost in thought that she jumped and allowed the Hard Case to clatter to the floor when York put a hand on her shoulder and asked if she was alright. She looked at him—a little blankly, it seemed—before slowly nodding her head and making a non-committal sound.

Wash leaned over to pick the Case up and gave a low whistle when another, completely different item, tumbled into his hand.

Even in the low light, the diamonds encrusting the silver (white gold? Platinum?) chain and surrounding the large blue diamond hanging from the center glinted and winked at everyone with eyes.

York could've sworn he saw Wyoming's fingers twitch, and even Maine stared raptly at the priceless (he guessed) piece of jewelry.

At least, he _assumed_ that's what the large man was looking at. His attention could have also been on Louisiana (the she and Wash were sitting next to each other, closest to the door), who was looking at the necklace with a distinctly… odd expression on her face.

They all remained like that, frozen, for several seconds.

The silver agent was the first to recover, nonchalantly rising from her seat and handing the data-stick over to Four-Seven-Niner when confirmation of its contents was requested. But, while the strange intensity had disappeared from her features, her face was drawn and pale.

York had a feeling that the entirety of the night had finally come crashing down on her. Hell, _York_ felt exhausted and he hadn't even understood most the night's proceedings.

When she came back, Louisiana asked, "What does the tag say?"

Wash's very intelligent response of "Huh?" prompted her to pluck the necklace from his grasp. Although, to be fair, the poor guy _had_ been fielding requests from Wyoming to take a closer look at it since Louisiana had left the British Freelancer's line of sight.

If possible, Louisiana blanched even more when she examined the little white tag secured by a string to the chain, which would usually have some kind of absurd price written on it in jewelry stores.

Curious, York crossed the Pelican to sit next to the young woman and peer over her shoulder at the sharp, spiky handwriting on the little white rectangle of paper. However, before he could read it, the silver agent quickly flipped it over and read the words written in entirely different cursive, loopy lettering.

**Happy Birthday, C.**

"I didn't know it was your birthday, Lou." York's voice was curious but still friendly.

Louisiana nodded, mutely.

Wash made a small, exclamatory noise. "It is? How old are you, now? Twenty… two?"

"Twenty-three" was Louisiana's soft reply. York saw her trigger finger twitch.

Louisiana shook her head, as if trying to dislodge a bad image, then dropped the Diamonds and Co. into the Tactical/Hard Case and reattached it to her armor.

She looked directly at York.

"Can we go home now?"


	9. You Are Now Entering Freelancer City

**A/N: Here, have an update you ungrateful bastards... Okay, I only ****_kinda_**** mean that. But seriously, you guys are _killing_ me here. Is a review, ****_any review_****, too much to ask for here?... Apparently it is.**

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_Murphy's Fifth Law: If anything just cannot go wrong, it will anyway._

Louisiana kept her back straight, her hands clasped behind her back, and completely silent, like the rest of her team, as the Director reviewed the information on the data-stick. Her ribs were screaming at her to relax her position, and maybe even (albeit grudgingly) seek medical help, but she and the others had yet to be dismissed. They had been in the same position on the bridge for several minutes and that didn't seem as if it'd be changing any time soon.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Washington ease his legs further apart in an effort to distribute his weight more evenly and get semi-comfortable.

After another minute or two, the Director cleared his throat and turned toward their line of five. "You have done well," he began. "This information will be _invaluable_ in the coming war effort."

"However," he continued, his voice turning cold. "While the manner in which this information was recovered is questionable, it is not the problem—the results of the rather _unorthodox_ methods used in retrieving it are."

_Oh, fuck,_ the diminutive Freelancer thought. She _definitely_ knew where this was going. Sure enough—

"Agent Louisiana!" The Director barked, and the agent in question took one cautious (read: hesitant) step forward. "Please explain to me"—_Eyes straight ahead like a good little soldier, _she thought to herself—"how an agent of your caliber"—_Back straight, don't slouch,_ Louisiana scolded as she felt her posture begin to slump—"managed not only to _not_ retrieve the objective within the required guidelines"—_Normal breaths, keep your breathing even. Don't look intimidated_—"but to alert almost every soldier within three city blocks to your presence!"

The silver Freelancer had to take a deep, calming breath as a myriad of none-too-friendly replies leapt to the tip of her tongue. Now wasn't any time to get into a pissing contest, though. Now was the time to sit down, shut the fuck up, and pay attention. Now was the time to actually act like the soldier she was and not like a whiny, contrary child who refused to treat her superior with respect. _I am_ not _going to let Cisco win_, Louisiana resolved.

Her eyes darted over her teammates—Maine looked as unaffected as ever; Wyoming's body language gave away his interest in the proceedings; Washington was subtly edging away from her and the Director, as he if thought a bomb might go off near them; but it was York who caught her attention. His posture was stiff and his shoulders were slowly climbing toward his ears the longer she refrained from answering, as if he were bracing himself for a scolding by proxy since, as experience had taught him, she wasn't going to take it seriously.

It took Louisiana a microsecond to figure out why: He thought she was going to mouth off to Director Church. He thought that she was going to say or do something to (best case scenario) get herself into deep shit and (worst case scenario) drag the rest of them down with her. _Well, fuck_.

That decided it then, didn't it?

Louisiana cleared her throat before she spoke, her voice appropriately respectful. "I take full responsibility for my actions, sir."

She saw York, who had apparently been searching for the answers to the universe in the stainless steel of the floor, jerk his head up at that statement and stare. However, Louisiana ignored his obvious reaction to her words and continued.

"Our original plan was rendered inadequate and I resorted to a… less conventional method of procuring the objective, believing that I would be able to complete the mission that way."

"It appears you were mistaken," Director Church interjected, frostily.

"Yessir," she answered, falling back into her obedient-soldier role with little resistance, hanging her head and looking suitably bashful. "There were several variables that I simple didn't account for before entering the building. I believe that, after retrieving the data, I inadvertently tripped some kind of sensor, alerting security to my intrusion."

_Bullshit_, Louisiana thought. _Whoever was pretending to be me to Selene triggered the alarms on purpose. For whatever reason…_

Though he showed no outward sign of surprise, Louisiana knew that the Director was… _intrigued_ by her sudden attitude shift toward him, if nothing else. He scrutinized her for ten long seconds before giving a short nod and angling his body to include the rest of the team.

Louisiana stepped back into line as he began to speak again.

"As I said, despite the unfortunate repercussions, the mission was completed to my satisfaction and I am sure that _all_ of your performances will be reflected in your ranking."

The young Freelancer winced at his pointed tone and ignored the Counselor, who was fiddling with a handheld computer behind Director Church, as well as numbers on the leader-board changing.

"Very well," he continued. "You are all dismissed."

Everyone in the line saluted the Director and began filing out of the room—all except for Louisiana. She didn't move from her position and waited for her superior to finish speaking in low tones with the Counselor.

Louisiana saw movement out of the corner of her eye and turned her head to see York, who had been lingering at the doors and seemed to want to speak with her, and Carolina approaching him. The silver-clad agent tore her gaze away from the two lovebirds when she saw the Counselor heading out that way and heard a pointed, "_Yes_, Agent Louisiana?"

The soldier in her was quickly reasserting itself and Louisiana found her posture straightened once again (internal bleeding be damned, evidently) and gave the Director a salute—a proper one, not the mocking two-fingered salutes she was prone to—as well as a "Permission to speak, sir" for good measure.

Again, she felt like an amoeba under a microscope as he surveyed her, and had to force herself not to squirm. He gave a sharp nod after a few seconds.

Louisiana opened her mouth to speak, then closed it and cleared her throat. She hurriedly glanced around and, satisfied that it was empty, opened it again.

"Cisco—Kronos—was there, sir," she said, her mouth dry as her brain finally sat still long enough to _really_ consider the implications. She saw Director Church, who had not been looking at _her_ but had been looking over the data-stick's contents again, freeze.

"Agent Kronos was _there_? You're certain?" The Director asked, still not looking up at her.

"Yes," Louisiana said, firmly. "_He_ was Beauregard; if he was just impersonating him or if Beauregard is completely fictional, I don't know. But I spoke to him—we even exchanged a few honest blows."

He straightened his back, placed the tablet on a nearby surface, and faced her. "I see. And what was his purpose in contacting you… after all this time?"

Louisiana could hear the Tone in his voice and responded before thinking (read: sneered). "He wanted to chat. Catch up on lost time," her voice, which had been downright saccharine, turned nasty. "What the hell do you _think_ he wanted?!"

She took a deep, calming breath and turned away from him, hands on hips. _I_ really _need to work on this impulse control issue. There's no point in getting worked up; he_ needs _to know what happened. You're a soldier—he's your CO. You're a soldier—he's your CO._

Turning back around, she saw Director Church watching her, waiting, with a stormy expression. Louisiana cleared her throat and rubbed the back of her neck, sheepishly.

"So, he inquired about the Project," he said, his face smoothing and his voice as steady as if nothing had happened.

"Yessir," she answered with an affirmative nod, before adding, "He said that somebody—anonymous, mind you—tipped him off to watch for me there, in Chicago."

Louisiana saw his brows furrow at that, then continued cautiously. "Director Church… I believe we may have a leak."

The Director turned away from her to face the leader-board and heaved a deep sigh. He didn't say anything for several minutes and, in the end, the Freelancer was the one to break the silence, venturing a hesitant "… Did you hear me, sir?"

"For some time now," the Texan began, "I have suspected something of the like…"

"_Sir_?"

He suddenly turned to face her again, seeming much more agitated than she'd ever seen him before. And she'd seen him pretty pissed, mostly at her. "Too many times have agents been injured in the field because our element of surprise was negated! Too many times has the enemy somehow predicted our movements, not to mention evaded our most highly trained operatives—"

Louisiana's eyes widened at that. She'd heard _rumors_ that Carolina's latest mission had been designated a failure, but she had never paid them any heed. Carolina was The Best; no doubt, no discussion, no competition. If she had been thwarted (_What is this,_ she thought to herself. _A royal court in medieval times? Robin Hood?_) then how the hell was _she_ supposed to do anything against _Cisco_ and his band of Merry Men? (_Gotta stop using that analogy otherwise I won't be able to watch that movie anymore without the horrible association._)

The Director took a deep breath before continuing, much more calmly, "As I said, I've been suspicious for some time."

She couldn't help but ask and hope that she wasn't crossing the line. "… Do you have any suspects, sir?"

He didn't answer Louisiana immediately, studying her before eventually responding. "I have no solid leads at this time. I've ordered the Counselor to look over the psychological profiles of all the crew and bring me the files of all candidates most likely to help the enemy."

Everything inside silver-clad Freelancer was screaming _Don't you dare!_ but she opened her mouth, regardless, and the words poured out without her able to stop them.

"And if it's one of the agents?" Her voice was so soft that it was almost inaudible.

She heard Director Church sigh, "Then we are in a far more dire situation than any of us thought…"

Louisiana didn't know how to appropriately broach the subject, but the conversation seemed to be over and the silence was killing her. Now was as good a time as any, she supposed.

"Director…" She took a deep breath before plowing on. "I'd like to talk to you about the possibility of implantation."

The sardonic glint in his eye as he answered her statement was enough to make the agent wince inside her helmet and pray that her body language didn't portray her discomfort with the subject. Good God, did she absolutely _hate_ the smirk in his voice!

"The last time we spoke of implantation you had quite a few choice words about it that would have any other… soldier court-martialed for insubordination."

As she spoke, there was a seemingly disproportionate amount of desperation coloring Louisiana's voice. "That's because I didn't honestly think there was anything to your claims! Not _really_!"

"Then why did you reenlist?" Director Church fired back. "As I recall, you were rather adamant about your distaste for the military."

She looked down and shuffled her feet.

"When we first met, back in New Alexandria… What you said about me not fitting into civilian life… You were right."

Louisiana's eyes, which had been fixed on her boots up until then, darted up at the Director and then back down, not wanting to see smugness… or anything else.

"Listen, I'm a soldier—as much as I dislike that fact, that's all that I am; all that I'm capable of… And, if I put my mind to it, I am a _good_ soldier."

Louisiana took a deep breath before continuing.

"I'm good, but they're better: Cisco, Trix, all of them that stayed with the Doc, with Crichton. They. Are. Better. Than me… They're better than most of your Freelancers, too."

She looked him square in the eye. "If you want them gone, really and truly gone, then you're gonna have to either involve your top agents—Carolina, York, Maine, the Dakotas—or you're gonna have to trust me with a lot more than second-rate missions. Not to mention a lot more firepower."

He hadn't interrupted, but he raised an eyebrow at that, and Louisiana plowed on before he might.

"I'm talking anything you can spare, and maybe a few things you can't. When you came to me, you said that you wanted to keep your agents out of this conflict and focused on their enemy. If that's truly how you want to do it then I'm going to need some help—I'm talking equipment and AI who can run it."

The Director of Project Freelancer frowned, turned away from Louisiana, and began looking through files on a nearby computer. "What do you need?" He asked when she had finished speaking.

She had put a lot of thought into that question during the Pelican-ride over and was confident in her answer, if not her abilities. "When you approached me last month about implantation, you rattled off a list of programs that I didn't really pay much attention to…"

Louisiana's voice trailed off and when her superior glanced up from whatever it was the he was doing, she raised her eyebrows as if prompting him.

"Tau, Xi, and Upsilon," he replied as he turned his attention back to his data-pad.

The in-the-soldier-zone agent nodded. "Upsilon, it's the most compatible one, right? Those three both performed well with my personality in the simulations but Upsilon did the best."

"That's correct."

"I want him."

Her tone of finality made the Director glance up at her sharply and narrow his eyes, before giving a single nod. "You'll have to be reexamined," he warned. "The psychological profile being used to run compatibility simulations is from your first week of active duty and is likely out of date now that you've encountered Dr. Crichton's men in the field again."

"Right, right…" Louisiana said, absently. She hated those shrinks analyzing (read: judging) her but if that meant that she'd be "suitable" for implantation sooner then, by all means… It was still annoying, though, the chin-rubbers thinking that _she_ was crazy; that she might go off the deep end at any moment. They'd even tried to get her to share quarters with another agent; probably hoping that, being around someone they considered to be a picture of sanity, or maybe just extremely calm, she'd sub-consciously model herself after that agent (whoever it may have been). Deep in thought, Louisiana began gnawing on her lip behind her helmet as a new plan took shape in her mind.

"You gave me the files of others, though," the Freelancer suddenly blurted out, as the memory of the data-pad sitting—relatively undisturbed—on her nightstand hit her. "Background information and such about AI theory, as well as profiles of other fragments—programs that aren't suitable for implantation in any of the other Freelancers."

The Director's voice was cautious as he answered, slowly. "… Yes, but I'm surprised you examined them. I was under the impression, from your look of disdain when the Counselor handed them to you, that you wouldn't so much as glance at them."

Again, Louisiana felt sheepish, but when she recalled every instance in which she acted similarly—blowing off an assignment, regardless of how informal; talking back to Director Church or the Counselor and, even worse, doing it when other agents were in the vicinity; even just the times when she rolled her eyes in response to an order or comment from one of them—Louisiana felt shame wash over her whole body, sinking into every fiber of her being, until she wanted to scrub herself with a wire brush to get the icky-ness off.

Instead of expressing these awkward sentiments, she pushed them to the back of her mind and responded the only way she could without going into… _uncomfortable_ waters, and still being truthful.

"I _like_ AI theory, though—it's _interesting_, and I'm at least a little familiar with the material. When I was given the files, I wasn't even considering _implantation_."

Louisiana knew that something had leaked into her voice when the Director looked at her sharply. She looked away.

Clearing her throat, the silver Freelancer got back on topic.

"There were a couple fragments that caught my attention: Psi and Phi."

At the mention of the AI programs, the Texan picked up a data-pad and began scrolling through files. After a moment, he found what he was looking for and looked back up at the Freelancer, eyebrows raised.

"They're certainly very _interesting_ choices. What do you want with them?"

Louisiana smiled wickedly. "Oh, I want both of _them_, too."

Director Church straightened and looked her square in the eye (how he managed to do that in the first place had her perplexed all on its own).

"Absolutely not," he said firmly. "There is no possible way for a human being to handle more than one artificial intelligence sharing their mind."

The armored soldier quirked an eyebrow, not caring in the slightest that he couldn't see it, because it showed in her voice. "Yeah, you're right. It can't," she said simply. "But that's only with full AI programs. These little fragments are just that: fragments."

Louisiana grinned as she continued.

"So, if one of these fragments were to be completely stable, then, theoretically, the other two should mimic that one.

Animals, as well as humans, do it all the time when put in groups. If one individual asserts itself as dominant, as a"—Louisiana couldn't help but smirk—"as an _alpha_, then the rest of the group tries to model itself after the perceived leader."

Of course, she had no idea if what she said was true, but it at least _sounded_ legit, right?

The Director took his time answering, mulling over what Louisiana had said. In an attempt to speed things along—she still had something else she wanted to do today, thank you very much—she added, "C'mon, I'll be your guinea pig for whether or not your agents can handle another couple of programs in their noggin!"

Louisiana grinned impishly at the look that her phrasing had garnered from her superior, but quickly suppressed it. After several minutes of silent contemplation, Director Church nodded his assent.

"Very well."

The silver Freelancer felt, for lack of a better word, excited at the prospect of finally having free reign to go after the Doc and, better yet, Cisco. She quickly gave a "Thank you, sir" and snapped another salute before turning and heading towards the door.

When she opened the door, Louisiana saw something flicker in the corner of her vision, but didn't acknowledge its presence. She had a decent idea of what it was, anyway.

Turning her head toward the Director, she called back to him. "I'll send Missouri up here when I see him, shall I?"

Louisiana couldn't contain a snicker as her superior's head snapped up and he shot back, in a clipped voice, "And why, _exactly_, would you do that?"

Feeling much more like herself than she had in a very long time, the young Freelancer grinned gleefully. The tension between Agent Missouri and the Director was legend on the _Mother of Invention_.

"He still hasn't finished with the pyrotechnics armor enhancement I've been waiting for, sir," Louisiana answered, smirking and trying not to sound too delighted at the prospect of the inevitable future carnage. "I assumed you'd want to talk to him about it yourself, sir."

With that, Louisiana gave a two-fingered salute that she was more known for and beat a hasty retreat down the corridor in the direction of Hangar Bay G, her laughter echoing the halls in her wake.

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**A/N: Finally, it's up! I'm still not too sure about this chapter, but I think I'm about as happy with it as I can be. Actually, that's a lie-this is my favorite chapter yet! I just love it because it's pure, unadulterated PFL! Plus, it's so much fun to write the Director and Louisiana interacting, isn't it? Next chapter won't be out for even longer than usual, I'm afraid, because I'm working on a collab with a fellow writer and friend on dA (a-flyer; you should read his stuff) and I want to post it first. Anyway, that actually may be the next couple chapters or it might be all on its lonesome. I'll let you know.**

**Also, go to my profile on dA (aurorablix dot deviantart dot com) if you want to read Louisiana's personnel profile.  
**


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